


in the arms of the ocean (so sweet and so cold)

by agent_of_mischief, robynthemagpie_writes



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bittersweet Ending, Cursed Crowley, Digital Art, Drunk crying, Gay Aziraphale (Good Omens), Gay Crowley (Good Omens), George the gorgeous barkeep, Ghosts, Human AU, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Lighthouse Keeper Aziraphale, Like Lots, M/M, Mystery, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Period-Typical Homophobia, Podfic Available, Psychic Abilities, Queerbashing, Rating May Change, Sea Monsters, Sea Serpent Crowley, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Weird Sea Serpent Powers, monster au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-01-24 12:43:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 46,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21338434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_of_mischief/pseuds/agent_of_mischief, https://archiveofourown.org/users/robynthemagpie_writes/pseuds/robynthemagpie_writes
Summary: Aziraphale Fell becomes the new lighthouse keeper at Eastgate By The Sea, after the last one succumbs to his illness. He arrives five days before All Hallow's Eve with nothing but a small bag slung over his shoulder and his precious books, and is met with superstitious tales; a monster that rises from the deep from Samhain to Ostara, and its master, the Dark Hallow's Man, who can be seen stalking the clifftops. Aziraphale pays no heed to old fishermen's superstitions, but he will soon discover that he's not as alone as he thinks out on his little island. What is the thing he glimpses below the surface as the storm brews? Does the mysterious past of the last lighthouse keeper, Jacob Abelson, hold any answers? Is his restless soul the one whispering Aziraphale's name in the wind?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 280
Kudos: 235
Collections: Chaotic Omens: The Fallout of a Big Bang, Good Omens Human AUs





	1. The New Lighthouse Keeper

**Author's Note:**

> This is a labour of a lot of love that started as a little Halloween oneshot, and has grown into something that can no longer be contained and must be shared with the world. We hope to have regular weekly updates, and write ahead for that reason. A podfic has become available, and chapter one is up [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21390202/chapters/50956603) .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music suggestions for this chapter by [Jack](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rTve18mowkE) and [Robyn](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O_pQC_tV3kQ)

Everyone knew it was only a matter of time for the old lighthouse keeper’s lungs to finally give out. 

“He already lasted more winters than expected,” they say, and “How sad he died all alone out here, poor thing, hacking his soul out.”

They find him one Tuesday morning at the beginning of October when he doesn’t appear to meet the supply boat for his usual deliveries, and the men who carry his body out of the old stone building notice things, like the two empty mugs on the little bedside table and the chair pulled up to the bed. They have heard the rumours, but whatever they think they know they won’t speak ill of the dead.

“Whatever old Jacob Abelson did in life,” mutter some of the village women over their tea the next morning “may God rest his soul now.” And that’s that, for now at least.

As per the one request in Jacob's will, they bury him at sea: at sea but within sight of the lighthouse he had tended for more years than most can remember. The casket- no more than a few old planks of decaying wood hastily nailed together- is lowered carefully down to the rocky shore and onto the waiting boat. They reach their destination and, gently as they can, they lower the box into the sea. The waves lap at it hungrily; another offering for the murky depths, and God knows that the sea in this corner of the world is always ready to claim its prize. Despite the mourners’ worries, it doesn’t get washed back towards the rocky shore of the lighthouse island, but is taken by the current and floats out into the open waters until the morning fog lingering on the horizon finally swallows it up.

The paltry funeral procession- four coffin bearers, a priest, and a few charitable widows, the only souls brave enough to venture out on the morning tide- makes its way back to shore and up the narrow streets of the village. The day is still just beginning and there are few people to acknowledge outside of their small party, the most notable living thing they encounter being a scruffy tomcat slinking home after a night of hunting. Respects paid, they slowly trudge their ways homeward, wrapping up tightly against the chill of the crisp October air. They know that there is more to be said, but it can wait until later in the warm confines of their homes or the small village inn. 

There are no other boats out this morning, so there is no one but the few seabirds gathered on the water, even then too few for a cove of this size, to witness a shadowy shape emerge from the depths. Sleek steely scales glint dully in the grey light of dawn as a writhing dark mass breaks the surface for a few seconds and then disappears once again into the darkness below, the body of Jacob Abelson held tightly in its coils. The shattered pieces of the discarded coffin are carried away on the tide.

* * *

Aziraphale struggles to keep his coat wrapped around himself as he reaches out to fumble for the latch of the inn door. Even though it is only approaching 7 o'clock in the evening it has been dark for hours, the summer months now having fled, taking the long warm nights with them. The thought of milder days makes the wind that whips against Aziraphale's face and plucks insistently at his clothing seem even more bitterly cold than it is, and he concentrates more closely on the door handle which is stiff with many year's exposure to the sea air. 

He is growing impatient, eager to pass over the threshold into what he imagines to be a warm and cosy bar beyond. The wind whistles and howls as it tumbles its way from the shore up through the little streets, bringing the smell of salt and seaweed with it. Despite himself, Aziraphale pauses in response to the scent, and it makes him feel at home. 

_ Aziraphale. _

His head whirls around towards the sound of his own name borne on the wind. He looks intently to left and right, peering into the darkness around him to try to make something of the shadows in the doorways and on the street corner. There is no one there. His ears are aching and his teeth are rattling with the intensity of the gale, and he shakes his head firmly as though to dislodge the unearthly whisper from his brain. _ Strange. _ There is a click from the latch as he finally releases it, and Aziraphale surges forward with relief into the yellow light of the inn.

Every pair of eyes turns to him as he enters. _ It's likely not a place used to new faces, _ Aziraphale reasons. He tries to push the prickle of unease building under his skin out of his mind as he makes his way to the bar, keeping his face as relaxed as possible.

"You the new lighthouse keeper?" The bartender's gruff voice cuts off his attempt at a greeting, and Aziraphale startles at the other man's tone._ They might be a reclusive little village, but that’s outright rude, _he thinks.

“Υes. I’m Aziraphale Fell,” he says, drawing himself up to his full height, unimpressive though it might be, and retracting his hand where it had been halfway to offering a handshake. _ Not the handshaking type_, he suspects.

“George Howell,” the innkeeper grunts. He gestures to the bar stools in front of Aziraphale, expression softening somewhat as he openly appraises him from across the rough wooden counter. He looks almost… _ pitying _?

Aziraphale takes a seat, back straight and shoulders tense. There is something about the way that the ruddy-faced man's expression has shifted that puts him on his guard.

“So, this is your inn?” he asks, ever one to attempt polite conversation. _ Manners maketh man. _

“Hmm,” replies George in the affirmative. He puts a glass of something caramel-coloured in front of Aziraphale unprompted.

Aziraphale recognizes the smell of brandy and realises that he needs something to warm his insides up right now, though something tells him that the goosebumps prickling his arms are only partly to do with the cold, and mostly from the lingering memory of his name on the night air.

“Been in the family for ages,” George adds. “Here since the village was three houses and a chapel.”

“It’s a lovely place. Quaint,” Aziraphale forces out, thinking of the ramshackle old buildings he has managed to glimpse through the storm as he made his way down the poorly-tended lane from the main track which had been as close as he could convince the coach to bring him. _ Quaint is one way to put it. _

George chuckles. “‘S a cold, harsh place. And so are the people. But they’re good folk, just doing what it takes to survive out here.”

Aziraphale swallows down the drink, feeling it slowly warm his insides as it glides down his throat. It does very little to put him at ease however, and he’s certain that the sticky dampness of the salt-laden air clings to him like a second skin even more intensely now than it did when he was outside, braving the cruel elements. He wordlessly pushes the glass towards George, who pours another generous measure of brandy out for him.

“When will you be setting out then?” George asks.

“As soon as the storm eases up,” replies Aziraphale. He braces himself for the rest of the questions that are bound to follow. _Why a lighthouse keeper? Why here?_ _No wife and children? Why leave your last situation? What's in all those boxes you sent on ahead? _He has been preparing his answers to all these and more potential queries on the long journey down here, and he mentally shuffles through his note cards ready to pluck out the correct one.

“You need to keep your wits about you out there,” George says instead, taking Aziraphale by surprise.

He meets the man’s eyes over his glass and feels the hackles rise on the back of his neck at the intensity of his stormy grey gaze. The bar, though not really noisy before now, seems to have grown deathly silent behind him at the innkeepers words. A chair creaks as someone shifts their weight in the corner, and Aziraphale can almost imagine them leaning in low over the tables to better hear what comes next. He doesn’t take his eyes off the man across from him as he waits to hear more.

“These are hungry waters,” George says, voice barely above a whisper.

Aziraphale is well accustomed to seamen’s superstitions. His own father and grandfather were fishermen and his uncle was in the Merchant Navy; he grew up with more sea water than blood in his veins, as his mother used to say to him. It did no good to fear the creatures of the deep when, like as not, it was the waves and the currents of the ocean itself that took most men to their graves under the water. That was what his father would say. _ Fear the waves, not the mermaids, because at least the siren would give you her song to lull you off to sleep first. _

So he rarely pays attention to what old fishwives and grizzled sailors whisper over their pints about sea monsters and ghost ships. This feels different though. There is something haunted in the grizzled barman's gaze. It brings to mind the feeling of hundreds of eyes watching him out of the mist, and of a soft voice whispering his name in the wind. He feels his mouth go dry despite the sweetness of the brandy still lingering on his tongue. He swallows once more, trying to conceal his disquietude and knowing that he fails.

"All waters take their share of those souls brave enough to try to tame them. These can be no worse than others," Aziraphale finishes, more weakly than he intended. 

Something like frustration flashes in George's eyes and thunder growls low in the distance as though in answer to his look. _ Count the seconds between the thunder and the lightning, how long will it be until the storm hits? _

"You're a bigger fool than you look if you believe that. I've lived here my whole life, boy and man, but I've traveled elsewhere too. I've been far and wide and I tell you, these waters are hungrier than most. I don't need to go talking about it neither, especially to folk who think they know better than we do," George shoots back and he starts to move away to the other end of the bar under the pretense of wiping it down with the stained cloth flung over his shoulder. 

Aziraphale remembers some of the ineffable things he's seen with his own eyes out on the ocean waves, and he knows that others would scoff at some of his stories too. He considers the curious expression on George's face just now and his own name hissing on the wind, and he half raises a hand towards the older man; a signal to stay.

"I didn't mean any offence, friend. Tell me."

George looks him over once more then moves back towards him, reaching under the bar and bringing out another glass to set on the age-worn surface between them. He says nothing as he pours himself a measure of the brandy and swallows it down in one swift and well-practised movement. He refills the tumbler and brings it towards his lips again, stopping half way and, with eyes on the amber liquid in the glass he says: "There's something out there, something more than the tides and the rocks. There's something living in the waters and we’re fast approaching the time of year when it wakes up."

He lifts the glass the rest of the way and drains it once more. Aziraphale pauses and is just about to answer when he becomes aware of one of the other men in the room rising from his seat and moving to occupy the empty stool beside him, pointedly depositing his empty glass on the countertop.

"You telling 'im about the monster and it's master, George? Well, you'd know all about that wouldn't you. Name's John Wilson, I'm the grocer if it pleases you. Oh, don't mind if I do have another, Mr... Aziraphale? That’s an unusual name, as it goes. As I was sayin', George here would know all about the The Dark Hallows Man, given how often he's seen him out on the cliff tops these past 20 years." 

The newcomer is wiry and strong looking, though he is developing a stoop in his shoulders, no doubt from years of hauling heavy crates of produce. A wild tangle of greying hair covers his cheeks and chin, sticking out at all angles, and it prompts Aziraphale to absentmindedly run a hand over his own much more tidy beard. He glances back to the innkeeper and notices how he keeps his eyes resolutely downward as he polishes the same glass over and over. This is not the type of conversation Aziraphale has been expecting this evening, and from the look on George's face it appears that he wishes he had kept quiet now too. The grocer seems a little drunk and needs no encouragement to continue on.

“See, what George says is right. The waters in these parts are more deadly than most and it all starts from Hallow’s Eve; that's five nights from now. We get our share of drownings and wrecks like everywhere else the rest of the year, but from Samhain to Ostara something stirs in the sea, comes up from the deep and makes sure that even the best boats are sure to get into mischief. Only the bravest or most stupid crews will venture out past the shallows come winter. You’ll want to make sure you keep the larder well stocked out there on that island of yours, because there won’t be many vessels making that trip in a hurry.” 

Aziraphale looks at John in what he hopes is a stolid manner; he doesn’t want to be taken for a fool who will be scared by what sounds to him like the natural shifting of the seasons. What sailor ever doubted a rougher sea in the winter months? Surely he has not found himself stationed off the coast from the most medieval-minded people he has ever come across? He had hoped for more stimulating company than this on the infrequent trips he will need to make into civilisation for supplies. The word ‘civilisation’ starts to feel like a stretch if terrors from the deep are how they explain the natural phenomena of the ocean at their doorstep. Something of his incredulity must have shown in his expression, because John hastens to continue, keen to keep the attention of the novel newcomer with sun-bleached hair and sky-blue eyes.

“I see what you’re thinking; you’re thinking we’re the biggest bunch of dullards you’ve ever met. It’s not just talk though. There’s plenty among us who’ve seen something out there in the water, always just a glimpse, never there long enough to make it out fully, but enough of us have seen it to piece it together over the years. Ain’t that right, George? Bah, he won’t talk about it, seeing what he thinks about its master. But everyone says the same,” John murmurs in a show of secrecy, even though his voice can be clearly heard by all in the stuffy room, leaning so close to continue that Aziraphale can smell the beer on his breath, “we’ve all seen the same thing: scales as hard and black as night on its back, red as glowing coals on its belly; body as thick as us put together and as long as all three of us all laid out end to end as well; fangs as long as my forearm and as sharp as the butcher's knife; and eyes... Well, there’s not many who’ve seen those eyes and made it back to shore to tell of it. If you’ve gotten close enough to see those eyes then you’re already as good as dead. My cousin went out crabbing with his mates one morning and they got carried out of the bay by the current. We found him washed up on the beach cradling his friend’s body the next day. The only thing we could get out of him was ‘Eyes like the devil, God those yellow snake's eyes..." 

“That’s enough now, John, you’ve had a few and you don’t want to go saying things that you’ll regret tomorrow,” comes George’s deep voice, cutting through the layers of intrigue and making Aziraphale start slightly despite himself. He allowed himself to be drawn in by the grocer’s no doubt well practiced skills in storytelling, and he realises that he is leaning towards the other man too. Aziraphale straightens up again and takes another sip of his brandy.

“Sounds… interesting. I’ve heard tell of giant eels that would become aggressive towards fishing boats that came into their territory.” 

“This isn’t an overgrown eel we’re talkin’ about, we’re fishermen here, we know what we’ve seen. It’s a serpent from the depths of Hell come up to punish us for all our sins. And its master makes sure to send it where it’s needed. A stranger he is, well, to _ most _ of us. A dark wizard some reckon, or maybe even Beelzebub himself. No good at any rate, and just as dangerous as his monster if you cross him. You mark my words, come Hallow’s Eve he’ll be up there on that hill looking out to sea to call it up ready for the coming months. All dressed in black with hair like flames from the pit and eyes glowing with malevolence and-”

“I said that’s ENOUGH!” bellows George from behind the bar.

The hand in which Aziraphale holds his brandy glass jumps violently enough to spill some of the contents, and for the second time a true silence falls over the inn.

“I say that’s enough and I mean it. I think you should all be calling it a night now, I’m closing up early on account of the storm. Won’t your missus be wanting you back before dawn at least one night this week, John?” 

An elderly woman dressed in dark shabby clothes seated at a nearby table perks up and takes the bait; “If she had her way she’d get you to rent him a space under the bar, George, so she’d never have to have him home again!”

The room explodes in raucous laughter at this, and from the self-satisfied smile hiding beneath George’s beard it is clear that this is what he had planned. Aziraphale is impressed by the innkeepers control of his space, though he cannot help his desperate curiosity about this dangerous stranger on the hilltops as well as this frightening monster in the sea. He also wants to know why John seems so certain that George knows more than he has said.

One by one the patrons gather their things together, drag on overcoats that have barely dried in spite of the warmth from the fireplace, and reluctantly make their way back out into the bitter night. Aziraphale waits until the room empties, knowing that the evening’s awkward turn of events has been caused by his arrival, reflecting that only hours after entering the village he is already on track to alienate himself. _ Again _. He looks up at George warily now, and he knows that George must be thinking something along the same lines.

“Come on, I’ll show you up to your room and you can get settled in for the night. I’ve put all those boxes you sent up there too. There’s some stew left in the pot on the stove if you want it, and I’ve laid a fire in the hearth up there. Didn’t know when you’d get here in this weather so I haven’t lit it, it’ll be cold up there. Nothing I can do about that now.” George seems to be trying to apologise for something more than just a cold room but Aziraphale cannot understand what. If anything, he should be making amends to the other man for causing him the loss of a night’s earnings, though in his defense he did very little to provoke the situation.

“Thank you, after one night spent sleeping on the coach and another by the side of the road, I’ll be grateful for whatever room you have to give me,” Aziraphale offers by way of conciliation.

“Sleeping by the side of the road? Why was that then, coach break a wheel or something?”

“Something like that, yes,” Aziraphale replies cautiously.

_ Better not to admit that the inn he was supposed to be staying at refused to give him house room after one of the other guests recognised him and made sure to drop poison about him in the landlord’s ear, of why he was leaving the home he had established for himself with scarcely more than a few battered boxes of books and what clothes he could fit into the kit bag now resting on the floor at his feet. _ He clears his throat and follows George behind the bar and through to the narrow stairs that lead upwards.

Even though he is not particularly tall, Aziraphale has to stoop to avoid the lintel over the door to the room he now stands in. His eye is immediately drawn to the three wooden crates piled neatly in the far corner and he cannot help moving towards them to check what condition they have arrived in. He is pleased to see that they fared well on their journey, probably better than him in fact, and he resists the urge to attempt to pry off the lids that have been nailed shut for transport. There is a soft chuckle from the doorway and Aziraphale turns to see George watching him from the hall, a gentleness to his features that was not there before. It suits him. He straightens up hurriedly, not wanting to seem any stranger than he already must, and he moves back towards the door.

“Thank you so much for taking such good care of my property Mr. Howell, I am much obliged and eternally grateful. I couldn’t bring a lot with me, I had to leave at short notice and I was told that there wouldn’t be much room for my possessions regardless… Well, please let me know if I can do anything to repay you in the future.”

George’s face grows serious once more as he says, “You can repay me by doing what I said and keeping your wits about you once you get out there on that water and in that lighthouse. I know John talks a lot of rubbish when he’s in his cups, but he wasn’t wrong, and I’m not prone to lying or exaggerating the truth. You’ll find out soon enough anyway, and it’s best you’re warned beforehand. Maybe things would be different if… well, never mind. But you listen to me now: you stay away from the water if you can help it. You keep your doors and windows locked. And you watch yourself if you see a stranger abroad after dark, especially on Hallow’s Eve. If you’re still here on land I’d say you’d be better staying indoors.”

That strange look is back on his craggy face as he looks Aziraphale straight in the eye before saying, “Take it from me. That man John was talking about, he’s very real, as real as you or I, and I daresay much more dangerous. I don’t know about wizards or demons or imps from the pit, and I’m not saying that this man is controlling whatever Leviathan is patrolling our shores, but I do know him and he’s every bit as terrifying as whatever it is lurking in the ocean. More so maybe, because whatever is in the sea has to stay put and can’t get to us up here on the land. _ He _ can though. So just mind how you go. This is rough countryside here, and I’m not saying that you’re soft, I can see that you know how to handle yourself, but like I’ve said, this can be rougher than most. Well, listen to me chattering away like St. Beryl now, I’ll let you get settled in. G’night Mr. Fell.”

With that, the burly innkeeper turns and makes his way back down to the bar. 

“How peculiar,” remarks Aziraphale to himself under his breath as he begins to unpack his belongings and hang them tidily in the rickety wardrobe. None of the things he heard here tonight are any more unusual than the myriad other similar tales he has heard before. Why is it that this one, or rather these two, stick in his imagination and send an involuntary shiver down his spine? It's been a long day, a long week, and he cannot bring himself to think things over any more. His mind buzzing with unanswered questions and his body aching from days of travel, Aziraphale shrugs out of his wet clothing and dives straight under the woollen covers of the narrow bed. The sheets are unaired and feel damp and cold against his bare skin, but Aziraphale is beyond caring. He closes his eyes and listens to the wind rattling the loose windowpane in its shrunken frame, and the occasional spattering of raindrops hitting the glass. He feels his body give way to drowsiness, his breathing settle and deepen, and his eyelids flicker and close. 

_ Aziraphale _, the wind whispers somewhere between the salt water and the nebulae of his dreams.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Tune in next for Chapter 2: The Old Lighthouse.


	2. The Old Lighthouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale goes to the lighthouse. Fresh wounds are remembered, pieces of the past are discovered, and strange things start happening on the island.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update came faster than expected because we are on fire, and have gotten quite ahead with writing. Enjoy the new chapter.  
Music suggestions for this chapter by [Robyn](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DQ91HOTGoeQ) and [Jack](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qN_j1bz3i4s)

* * *

The storm blows itself out quickly, though the sky remains grey and sombre, and Aziraphale is able to make for his new home two days before he was promised that he might see the menacing figure on the clifftops. He has spent an uneasy few days at the inn, not sure what to make of the warnings he received and unable to shake the feeling that everyone he meets is looking at him like he is a condemned man, or worse a lamb being made ready for the slaughter. 

The man who shows up to row Aziraphale and his few belongings to the lighthouse is one of few words, even among the laconic locals. He is wiry and bundled up in several layers of worn wool, with a knitted cap pulled low over his brow; the very image of a sailor. Aziraphale tries to recall if his gaunt face was among the crowds in the inn on his first fraught night there, and whether that is what earns him the silence. He doesn't dwell on it. On this particular morning the silence is a welcome friend.

His sleep has been more restless than usual since he got here. Generally, Aziraphale is not prone to letting superstitious talk and ghost stories get to him. _ There be monsters, _ he has come to learn, _ and the worst ones do not dwell in the briny depths. _He runs a finger gently over the still-pink scar under his left eye, remembering the jeering crowd and a fist drawn back before hurtling towards his face where he sprawled coughing in the dirt. He remembers crawling away on his belly, too dizzy to stand at first, and then scrabbling to his feet to flee as he realised it was that or death. He has been running ever since, and has re-lived it over and over both in his sleeping and waking hours.

And yet his dreams the past few days are filled with rumbling storms, undulating shapes in the murky water, and golden serpentine eyes flashing bright with every crack of lightning. Such vivid dreams they are too. He wakes up before dawn, tasting the ozone from the storm on the roof of his mouth, eyes darting around in search of unearthly strikes of gold. 

Aziraphale rouses himself from his reverie and helps the silent ferryman load the crates, and he knows his gaze is intense and searching as he watches for any signs that he might need to draw the filleting knife that's been tucked into his belt ever since he left home. He hopes he will never have to use it on anything other than fish. And as he lowers himself into the little dinghy, stories of sea serpents slip his mind to be replaced by stories of people like him tricked into boats like this and disposed of just off shore. _ Quick and quiet, and nobody talks about it after. _

The steady sway of the boat and the sound of the oars gently breaking the water's surface ground him to the present. He always feels safer in the ocean's cradle, despite having tasted salt water in his lungs when he was no more than a boy. The sea spared him then. And his time on land has shaken his faith. He's sure now that either he's going to Hell, or almost everyone else is, and he doesn't know which prospect scares him more. All he knows is he would much rather have the ocean claim him instead. _ There's peace to be found in the deep. _But not today, it seems.

The sight of the lighthouse looming closer and its shape becoming clearer in the morning fog ignites the spark of hope in Aziraphale's chest. A lonely bastion standing tall and unwavering among the ruthless waves. _ If it can keep standing, guiding with its light despite it all... _

"That's the tricky part here," the boatman mutters. Aziraphale isn't sure if the words are even for him.

"'old on Mr. Fell."

Aziraphale nods vigorously and grabs the sides of the boat. The currents become stronger the moment they exit the safety of the bay, and the sea spray whips at the two men with a vengeance. A shiver of excitement runs down Aziraphale's spine. _ Bring it on then, devil-serpent, _ supplies a part of his brain that rarely speaks anymore. The part that used to fill up with tales of daring swashbucklers and ancient treasures and send his little heart racing as a child.

But no Leviathan emerges from the depths, and the deft seaman steers clear of any jutting rocks or currents that could smash them to pieces upon the approaching shore. The little pier on the island looks away from the mainland, out into the open sea. Aziraphale finds the placement odd, but they dock without incident. There is another little rowboat tied to it, covered in heavy tarp, its green paint peeling off at the hull. He doesn't catch sight of its name.

The boatman helps Aziraphale carry his belongings up the path to the lighthouse entrance, muddy and slippery from days of relentless rain, but no further. The smell of the sea mixes with the heady scent of wet earth and Aziraphale takes a moment to simply inhale. 

"I'll be off then, Mr. Fell. See you Tuesday with the supplies."

The boatman offers his gloved hand and Aziraphale gives it a firm shake, thanking him for the help. He follows him down the path to help him disembark and then he stands on the pier, watching the dinghy until it disappears around the island. Only then does he trek back up the path towards the waiting lighthouse.

_ This is it. Home. _He digs in his coat pocket for the thick ring of keys that was handed to him back in the village. None are marked, but he easily finds the one matching the rusted lock on the front door. Despite its outer appearance the mechanism is well oiled and it clicks softly into place from the first turn. The hinges too are well tended and the door glides open silently. Pale light spills into the room and refracts off the dancing dust motes kicked up with every step Aziraphale takes forward. 

The ground floor is very bare-bones in its design. The lack of a bookcase is expected but still noted with some disappointment, however Aziraphale is pleased to find a worn but comfortable looking armchair next to the cold fireplace. It's hard to imagine the space being cozy right now- the interior feels colder than the windswept pier, and he digs his hands into his pockets to search for some comfort there. _ As if all the warmth left the stone structure at the same time as it did his predecessor's frail body, _Aziraphale thinks and shudders. Before he explores further in or even begins to carry his things inside, he needs to get a fire going to chase out the damp cold and the lingering sense of loss permeating the bare room.

He is grateful to find the basket next to the hearth full of freshly chopped logs of just the right length and, surprisingly given the weeks without occupancy, they are perfectly dry and ready to use. There are even some smaller twigs for kindling on top of a pile of yellowing newspapers. The previous tenant was clearly more able than he was led to believe if he had been able to maintain such high standards until the end. That's at odds with what he has been told by the villagers though; they'd spoken of a long illness and their growing concerns for a man who had refused to take any outside assistance, even when he was seen to struggle to drag his weekly deliveries up from the pier to the front door. 

Aziraphale soon has a roaring fire going, already feeling the small room beginning to heat, and he is sure to secure the guard across the fireplace before returning to the front door to bring through his belongings. _ A fine start that would be, if he managed to set fire to the place before he was even properly moved in _ . It isn’t only the mouldering old building that he thinks of though; he looks lovingly at the three sturdy crates now piled in the living room and knows that his primary aim is to protect the contents of the boxes before him. _ His books _. No matter how hard things got these past months he always managed to keep these safe. He rests a hand reverentially on the uppermost box before moving on to explore the rest of the ground floor.

The lighthouse is as one would expect it to be: large, rounded, and old. Over the years there seem to have been minimal changes made to the infrastructure of the place, though Aziraphale can tell that there have been some attempts to make it feel more homely. There are faded cushions on the armchair and a simple but elegantly made carriage clock balanced on the mantle over the fireplace, where an old mariners map of the local waters also hangs, the edges of the frame clear of soot. The curtains over the deep window are also faded but when he inspects them he finds no trace of mildew, and now that he thinks about it the whole room feels fresh despite the dust. The lighthouse has been empty for nearly a month and he had not expected this. The white-washed walls are chalky when he brushes his fingers against them as he crosses into the narrow kitchen, where he is pleased to find a series of frames mounted on the wall opposite the well scrubbed stone basin. They contain fragments of dried corals and polished shells. He leans in to admire the delicate arms of a starfish tucked away in one of the boxy frames in the corner. There is something scribbled in pencil on the bottom edge of the mount that he can’t quite make out, but it begins with the letter ‘C’. He has no idea why, but a chill runs up his spine as he looks at the artworks.

Aziraphale is about to move on when he hears it again. 

_ Aziraphale _.

He jumps as he feels his name being breathed against the back of his neck and he turns, his fists raising automatically, ready to fight. The kitchen is empty. He rushes back through into the front half of the house, but there is no one there. He would have heard footsteps if any one had made their way upstairs, so he pulls the front door open and it catches in the wind, crashing back against the outside of the building. _ I would have heard the latch too, _ his rational mind tells him, and besides that there is nothing to be seen on the sloping footpath before him leading down to the jetty. He stares out towards the horizon for a moment longer as though he might find an answer there, then, feeling foolish, he pulls the heavy front door shut behind him as he returns indoors. 

He completely fails to notice the wet footprint on the front step.

* * *

That afternoon is spent unpacking his meagre belongings and storing them away in the furniture left behind by his predecessor and, from the look of some of it, the predecessor before him. Lighthouse keepers tend to stay in a post for life, so no doubt some of the items in this house could be considered antiques had they not spent countless years being gnawed at by the damp salty air of the sea. He does not mind this, though it does feel strange to think that he will be going to sleep this evening in a bed that last hosted a dead man. He sits on the edge of the mattress and looks over the room. Someone has placed a fresh towel along with a basin and jug for washing on an age-smoothed chair resting against the opposite wall, and he wonders how many years of sitting it takes to wear the arms smooth like that. He runs a hand over the pillowcase to remove a bit of lint clinging to it and is surprised to find it wet, wetter than the damp air alone would allow. He gazes up at the ceiling, expecting to see signs of a leak or water damage, but there is nothing. His face crumples in confusion, but without a good explanation to hand, he decides to take the pillow back downstairs with him and dry it out in front of the fire before bed.

It is not all leisure time on that first day. Aziraphale makes sure to climb the tightly winding staircase all the way to the top of the lighthouse before it becomes too dark to see by the weak autumn day light, and he is delighted to find the mechanisms in excellent working order, well oiled and swinging smoothly. He finds a small supply of all the essentials one might need to perform urgent repairs stashed away in a tool kit on the upper landing, as well as flares and a bundle of good quality candles with some wax-tipped matches alongside. _ Excellent _. His biggest fear upon taking the post was having to perform major repairs from the get go, especially when he heard how long the previous keeper had been unwell for. He wonders about that again, but lets it go and decides instead that he will drink a toast of thanks to the late Jacob Abelson and his diligent hard work. That is, if he can find anything worth making a toast with in the pantry downstairs. 

Aziraphale finds a bottle of Glenfarclas whiskey tucked away in the back of one of the kitchen cupboards later that evening. It is sitting next to two glass tumblers which only have a light layer of dust settled on their rims. He takes the bottle and one of the glasses out and pours a finger of the golden liquid into the bottom of the glass before returning to the warmth of the front room. With the room warmed, the curtains drawn against the blustery night beyond the window, and the soft glow from the firelight burnishing everything with a coppery glow, Aziraphale feels like this could really be a home for him, and he is embarrassed to think of his ridiculous performance in the kitchen earlier. _ When did you get so soft? _

Aziraphale stands before the hearth facing the clock and the map and raises his glass in a salute to them both.

“Here’s to you, Mr. Abelson, and to the wonderful job you have done of keeping the old girl running, she is a credit to you and I vow to maintain the standards you have set me. I pray that you go to your eternal rest unburdened and knowing that she is in safe hands,” he says before swallowing back the drink in one large gulp. It tastes like fire and apples, and he pours himself another smaller measure to sip at as he rests back in the well-used armchair with one of his many books. A log pops in the fireplace but Aziraphale does not jump; it is a familiar and comforting sound.

Outside the window, the wind whistles and blows. If Aziraphale listened to it more closely this night, he might even say that it wails and howls.

* * *

The next day is spent in relative calm. There are no spectres or whispers in the wind, and Aziraphale decides to blame his fatigue, the strangeness of the new place, and his recent misadventures for the previous day. He explores in more depth, and even sorts through some of old Jacob's remaining personal belongings. He's slightly startled to find an old Winchester hunting rifle in one of the upstairs cupboards. The thick layer of dust on it indicates no recent use, but an opened box of shot is soon discovered close by. Jacob's closet where Aziraphale's few spare clothes now hang also contains some old suits and jackets. Most are threadbare, but he does find a finer looking black coat that doesn't seem to have seen a lot of wear. It is narrow across the shoulders and chest, but Aziraphale assesses that this would make sense, the old man must have been slim in his final years. He carries it downstairs; he can send it back to the mainland with the next supply boat, a younger and more lithe man than himself can make use of it.

It is back in the little kitchen where Aziraphale really strikes gold. While cleaning out some of the drawers, filled with everything from rusty knives to old newspapers, he finds an old folder, the brown leather is faded and cracked in many spots, soft with use, and the thread holding it together is brittle. It breaks apart in his hands and the folder falls open to reveal countless yellowed papers covered in sketches. There are many of the lighthouse as it would be seen from the open water beyond the jetty. The strokes are sometimes gentle, but more often they have a roughness to them. The contrast of light and shadow is striking, and at times overwhelming. _ There's anger in those strokes, and sorrow, _thinks Aziraphale. There is no signature on any of the lighthouse drawings, and he wonders if they are Jacob's work. They definitely seem to have been precious to him.

At the bottom of the pile he finds the only drawing that shows a person rather than plain scenery. It's of a young man standing on the pier, the wind sweeping his scarf and his short dark curls away from his face. His chin and cheeks are covered in dark stubble, and his mouth forms a soft smile. Whoever drew the picture managed to capture a glimmering spark in the man's eyes that jumps out of the paper. On the very bottom left corner there is a signature, which instantly sparks familiarity. Once more, Aziraphale can only discern a letter 'C', and he remembers it from the wooden frames hanging on the wall behind him. _ Is the young man in the picture Jacob then? Is 'C' the artist? _

As he ponders, the kitchenette window which he opened earlier slams shut with a loud bang. Aziraphale startles and his grip falters as a hand flies to his chest. The folder lands heavily and many of the drawings are sent sprawling across the floor.

"Oh dear," he mutters, and then he shakes his head. _ How clumsy. _

He starts picking up the drawings, carefully smoothing each one out and looking for any tears. He handles them with the same care he does his books; deft hands caressing the paper softly, lovingly. When he has gathered them all he picks up the folder. He is dismayed to see the seam on the cloth lining on the inside of the folder has torn open in the rough landing. But the damage seems minimal, surely nothing he can't fix. He brings it near the window to inspect it more closely under the daylight.

It is there that he notices something peeking between the brown leather and the green cloth lining. The yellowed edge of something. _ Another paper? _ He feels along the seam and over the cloth for it. _ Not a drawing, the paper feels thicker. _

Aziraphale can't help but feel intrigued, even excited at the discovery. But he's not about to destroy his late predecessor's belongings. He leaves the folder on the kitchen table and all but runs up the winding steps to Jacob's- to _ his _room. He returns holding a folded up sewing kit made from rough canvas. The same kind sailors use, and one of the most useful items he managed to salvage from home. He sets it on the table, where he takes a seat, and he pulls out a seam ripper. He is careful not to cut away more thread than necessary, just enough to peel back the cloth lining and get to what's hiding underneath.

His hands, steady as a surgeon's while he worked at the aged stitches, almost tremble now as he extracts what turns out to be a photograph. The edges are faded, and it is creased in a cross pattern, like it's been folded in quarters and opened up time and again. He recognizes the man from the drawing, who he is now sure must be Jacob Abelson. He's slightly older here, more filled out, but his eyes have the same spark and his mouth follows the same curve. _ The artist really had his face memorized, it seems. _ He is standing in front of the lighthouse, but he is not alone. Another man stands beside him, taller and thinner and made to look even sharper by his dark clothes. Where Jacob's features can be seen so clearly however, this second man's look hazy. Aziraphale can't tell whether it's the result of him moving when the photo was taken, or the wear and tear of the photograph. The same effect could have been produced by a combination of humidity and constant touch. _ Like a thumb running over the same spot, over and over again. _ Aziraphale stays transfixed on the photo and the faceless man. It feels important, more so than anything he has stumbled across so far. He contemplates putting it back where he found it before he sews the lining back on. Instead he places it on top of the pile of drawings, right over the one of young Jacob, finding his own fingertips lingering over the obscured features of the mystery figure. Once he's done mending the folder he places the pile of paper carefully back inside, and he leaves it on the kitchen counter, fully intending to take another look later on. 

Much later, Aziraphale finally returns to the kitchen to prepare himself some lunch and is dismayed to find the folio floating face down in an inch of murky water in the deep-set sink. He cries out in alarm before rushing to retrieve the fragile pages from their watery grave. Muttering to himself under his breath, Aziraphale quickly takes the whole folder through into the living room where he has kept the fire lit once again, and he spends a cautious half hour peeling the sodden pages apart with painstaking care, before resting them at a safe distance from the flames on the rug before the hearth. It seems that most of the drawings are intact and he hopes that they will not suffer too greatly from their ordeal. He feels terrible guilt as he surveys the drying sheets before him, and he ventures back through to the kitchen to see how it could have happened in the first place. 

It doesn't take long to work out what must have happened. The window which had banged shut earlier causing Aziraphale to drop the folder has now swung back open once more, allowing rain to be pushed in to the small kitchen, no doubt washing in all sorts of dirt and grime with it. The rain is still falling, though the wind is driving it away from this side of the house now. Still, the folio was heavy and lying flat on the counter. _ Must have caught the upper pages and dragged the rest over, _ he reasons with himself. _ Nothing spooky about a bit of wind and rain. _ He's not sure who he's trying to convince.

_ Pull it together, man! _ He reaches for the dishcloth and mops up the mess before latching the window tightly shut.

It is only much, much later when Aziraphale is piling the unharmed leaves of paper together that he notices the missing photograph of the lighthouse keeper and the unknown stranger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Tune in next for Chapter 3: All Hallow's Eve.


	3. All Hallow's Eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day of All Hallow's Eve arrives, and Aziraphale learns some stories are more than fiction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I know we said weekly posting but progress is happening fast, and we couldn't quite wait to post this one. Also, there is now podfic available for chapter one, as well as a bit of art, in case you missed it.  
Music suggestions for this chapter by [Jack](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ywIgQBnBndI) and [Robyn](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z9IYdNcohw8)

On the morning of All Hallow’s Eve grey clouds roll in from the west and the air is rich with the scent of oncoming rain. Aziraphale shoots awake from his sleep in a panic at the break of dawn. By the time his heart has settled enough to get his bearings, he can no longer recall what it was he was dreaming of, but he finds his cheeks damp with tears that don’t feel like they belong to him.

_ Why would that be? _ He rubs at his damp eyes and slowly stretches, feeling the cold morning air prickle at the exposed skin on his hands and face. It helps to clear the last of the fog from his mind, but he is soon shivering and it is time to set to work rekindling the fires that have died down overnight and bring some warmth back into the place.

He decides to leave the bedroom cold until the evening since he tends to spend his days on the ground floor anyway. He is kneeling in front of the main fireplace cleaning out the soot and ash from the day before when a knock on the door makes him jump out of his skin. The wire brush in his hand clatters to the floor and skitters away across the flagstones, leaving dark smudges in its wake.  _ It’s nothing, just the wind rattling the door. _ The knock returns more urgently and only then does Aziraphale realize what day it is: Tuesday.  _ Supplies day. _ He shakes his head and chastises himself for getting so absorbed in a ghost story that he forgot his own schedule.

He gives up on the fire for now and, wiping his hands carefully on the rag he had picked up for that exact purpose, goes to the door. His relief is palpable when he is greeted by the familiar face of the boatman who brought him here a few days earlier, all wrapped up in a thick scarf and the same grey cap pulled low over his ears. Aziraphale realizes he should get something warmer than his own flimsy flat cap if he wants to get through the winter with both ears still attached to his head.

“Hello, so good to see you again so soon” Aziraphale greets the other man warmly, “would you like to come in?”

“Can’t," the boatman says abruptly. And then, in a more neutral tone, "got to get going soon, I’ve got other deliveries."

He pauses for a second, giving a curious glance towards the inside of the lighthouse over Aziraphale's shoulder, taking in the mess on the floor and the stacks of books piled on every available surface.

"Hope it’s not a terrible inconvenience to help me with the crates." He says eventually, whatever spell was capturing his attention broken.

"Of course not," says Aziraphale. The man might have proven his strength when rowing him here, but there is still only one of him and, hopefully, lots of supplies packed in the boat.

They descend the path in silence, and Aziraphale can’t help noticing something different in the man’s movements today, a certain tension that hadn’t been there on the day he was brought here.  _ ‘It all starts from Hallow’s Eve’,  _ the drunk grocer’s words ring in Aziraphale’s head.  _ Of course, any local would not want to be on the water on this day, what with their superstitions. _

That would also explain the extraordinary amount of stuff piled into the little dinghy. Clearly even this stout-hearted seaman doesn’t want to have to come out here too often,  _ from Samhain to Ostara.  _ Still, Aziraphale is thankful for the excess. The prospect of having his supplies run low is his own personal nightmare, never mind what the locals have to say about sea serpents and demons on clifftops.  _ No matter the little voice in his head that surfaces late at night and tells him that if any place is haunted, it must be this one. _

There’s an abundance of food, especially the kind that preserves for a long time, though a few fresh groceries have been placed among the items of the canned or cured variety; he is especially pleased to see a few pears which must have been a very late crop indeed. Aziraphale hopes they won’t be the last, as he would terribly miss food preparation beyond heating up the contents of a tin. The firewood is packed tightly in waxed canvas to stay dry on the trip, and along with what he still has in the lighthouse store it is enough for Aziraphale to keep a fire going all day long should he wish to.

Once they have carried everything up to the entrance, Aziraphale returns to the jetty once again to help the man disembark. Just as he is starting to untie the mooring ropes, he sees the boatman pull out one last bundle from underneath his seat. He leans out of the boat and holds it up to Aziraphale.

“What-”

“George Howell sends this. You weren’t packed for winter out here, he said.” There is the ghost of a smile on the boatman’s face at this, Aziraphale notices. He knows better than to ask, however.

He accepts the package, and notes that it is soft, clothing most likely, but that he can feel something harder and smooth packed up in there as well. He places it by his feet on the pier and thanks the man.

“No need, just doin’ my job,” he replies quickly, a look of discomfort flashing across his brow before smoothing to an unreadable mask once more. He seems to consider something, still half leaning out of the boat.

“Storm’s coming. Better to stay in today,” he says eventually.

Aziraphale nods, weighing the words in his head as his eyes flicker up towards the heavy vault of the sky above them. He looks back to the boatman and can’t help the question that finds itself slipping from his lips. “Do you believe the same as everyone else in the village? About things in the water risen from Hell?”

“I believe,” the boatman drawls thoughtfully, “you shouldn’t go out looking for things you’re not supposed to. Stay in, get a good fire going. Be safe, Mr. Fell.”

There is an undeniable finality to his tone. Aziraphale wordlessly unfastens the line tethering the boat to dock. As it pulls away from the pier he suddenly feels very much alone out here on this rock in the middle of the sea, and he finds himself calling out to the boatman, loudly to be heard over the wind that is picking up around him: “Safe trip!”.  _ Please come back again soon. _

He sees the boatman nod to him in acknowledgement and he picks up the package from George before starting back up the footpath. He forces himself not to watch as the dinghy disappears from sight.

* * *

After a productive morning spent putting away and cataloguing supplies, and a satisfying lunch including vegetables and fish that didn’t come encrusted in salt, Aziraphale is feeling much brighter than he did that morning. He just decides to settle down with a book when he remembers George’s package, still sitting unopened in the bedroom upstairs, and he reluctantly replaces his bookmark and hauls himself up the narrow winding stairs to investigate. 

The parcel is where he left it - _ why wouldn’t it be, you idiot, you’re getting paranoid _ \- and he perches on the edge of the covers and sets to work opening it. The string around the brown paper wrappings has been tied neatly and comes undone easily, and Aziraphale makes short work of the rest of the packaging.  _ Oh, how thoughtful _ , he thinks to himself as he lays the items out one by one on the bed. There is a thick jumper made from wool dyed a grey-blue colour that would not be his normal choice, but it looks warm and has patches at the elbows to make sure it wears well. It might be a little snug around the middle, but it will do regardless. There is a knitted cap, not dissimilar to the one worn by the boatman earlier, and a pair of good quality gloves too. He lifts the final bundle of clothing -a pair of socks- and finds the harder item he had felt through the wrappings earlier tucked away safely in the middle of them. It is a bottle of liquid the colour of burnt caramel, and a sniff of the contents tells Aziraphale that it is rum this time.  _ A pirate’s life for me, indeed, _ he thinks as he recorks the bottle and gratefully pulls on the extra pair of socks He silently praises George for his unexpected kindness before stumping back downstairs to find a place in the cupboard for his new spirits. 

Aziraphale thinks briefly about the warning from the boatman as, a few hours and several pages of his book later, he pulls on his coat over his new jumper, tugs the woollen hat down over his ears and, choosing to ignore the sullen man’s words about staying indoors, makes his way out into the late afternoon. The sky is heavy with the gathering storm and the wind bites at his nose leaving the skin feeling raw as he makes his way out to the woodshed on the opposite side of the building. He fills the metal bucket he has brought along with kindling and a few logs before making to return to the warmth of the lighthouse. From his elevated vantage point at the top of the rise where the lighthouse sits, Aziraphale has an excellent view of the horizon. The sky really is magnificent now, moody shades of purple and blue mixing with the grey-white of the clouds, and as he scans them one of them flares with a yellowish glow from within for the briefest moment; a first flash of lightning. It is beautiful.

He stands for a moment, transfixed by the wonder of the natural world, then he reluctantly drags his eyes away. As he does, his gaze glides over the open water before him, made up of greys and greens and steely blues, already beginning to churn and boil with the oncoming tempest. Suddenly- he is sure of it, he is not seeing things- there is a darker point in the water ahead of him, no more than one hundred metres from the shore. A splash of white foam out of time with the cresting waves. A flick of something dark and sleek above the surface. Then it’s gone. He blinks once and tries to refocus on the same point, but he cannot find it. He has been standing there long enough for the wind to build around him and he feels it clawing at his clothing with increasing malice, the salt smell of the water growing stronger as the spray from the sea is lifted on the breeze.  _ What did he just see? _ He retrieves the bucket from the ground where he has let it fall and makes his way slowly inside, glancing back over his shoulder the whole while. 

Aziraphale has been around the oceans his whole life and has seen some truly spectacular things over the years. He has seen whales, dolphins, and once even a gigantic turtle that looked as though it could have carried a whole world on its shell.  _ What on earth was that thing though? An eel? A piece of driftwood? Kelp? _ He shakes his head to dispel the image and tries to forget the unmistakable flash of deep crimson he saw on the underside of whatever was in the water.  _ 'Scales as hard and black as night on its back, red as glowing coals on its belly' _ John Wilson’s words repeat over in his head as he stands there, clutching at the scuttle in his hands and feeling for all the world like a frightened little boy who has stayed up listening to ghost stories and now can’t escape them long enough to sleep. His heart is thudding in his chest, and for the first time since he got here he is feeling genuinely frightened.

_ My God, what was I thinking? Is it here for me? Am I really damned? Will The Dark Hallow’s Man be on the cliff tops tonight sending his monster for me before dawn? _

It is with shaking hands that he retrieves the bottle of rum from the shelf in the kitchen and pours himself a glass. 

“Welcome to the end times then, my dear,” he toasts to himself, a sardonic grin twitching on his face, before swallowing down the drink and returning on trembling legs to his book at the fireside.

* * *

The combination of the spiced spirit and a good read manages to push the fear from Aziraphale’s mind. The sound of the storm raging outside serves to remind him that within these stone walls he is warm and dry.  _ He is safe. _ It reminds him of the true dangers out there near the rocky shore. The things sailors  _ actually  _ need to fear out on the oceans. And it reminds him that he is keeping those waters safer thanks to the lamp that he maintains on the top of the lighthouse here at Eastgate By The Sea. It is a comforting thought, knowing that he is finally doing some good.

It is late when he climbs all the way to the top of the spiral stairs to check that lamp one last time and make sure everything is in order. When he finds the beacon lit and the mechanism spinning properly he nods to himself with the satisfied smile of a job well done before he clambers back down to his bedroom.

He made sure to light the fire in advance, so the space is as warm as the main room downstairs, if not more so on account of being so much smaller. Aziraphale shrugs out of several of the thick woollen layers he has cocooned himself in that day, down to his long johns, before splashing his face with cold water from the bowl in the corner of the room and rubbing it dry on the rough towel hanging over the back of the chair. He observes his reflection in the small round mirror hanging on the wall and muses that his beard needs a trim; he is beginning to look as rugged as John The Grocer. He is too tired to deal with it tonight however, and this will have to do for a wash for now, so after pulling a night shirt over his bare chest he slides under the thick blankets, grateful to be here in the warm, dry room whilst the demons and monsters are shut out in the hellish night where they belong. 

_ Nearly all of the monsters, you made it in here after all.  _ He hates himself for thinking it, and quickly reaches for the book at his bedside to distract himself from his darkening mood. He blows out the lantern on the side and props himself against the pillows to read by the light of the fire until, a very short time later, he drifts into a fitful sleep, his book spread out on the covers before him.

In his dream, Aziraphale is drowning. 

He can remember it all too well during his waking hours, and he used to dream of it when he was younger, but he has not visited the treacherous waters that nearly claimed his life for a long time. Not since he came to terms with the experience years ago.

He is back there now though.  He is small, just a boy, and he has fallen into the rough waters.

_ Not fallen, pusssshed. _

He knows how to swim, has been taught as early as he was taught to walk, earlier maybe, so he does not panic right away. He strikes the water and surges under, but he bobs to the surface like a cork, like he knows he will, and he draws in a fresh lungful of air as soon as his head breaks through the barrier to the sky. He kicks and churns at the sea as he knows he must, lifting his arms towards the heavens ready to be dragged to safety, to be held close in waiting arms. Something is wrong though. The water is pulling him back under.

_ Not pulling, pusssshed back under, held down until the ocean latches on to clothess and hair. _

He is caught in a downcurrent, the layers of warm clothing he is wearing now waterlogged and endeavouring to destroy him, not protect him. He sinks beneath the surface, kicking and writhing, fighting against the currents and against his rising panic. His lungs burn and his heart pounds painfully in his chest as his limbs cry out for oxygen to keep up the desperate struggle for survival. There’s a sharp stabbing in his side as the lactic acid builds, and he resists as long as he can, _don’t breathe in, don’t breathe in the water_. Until, lights flashing in his eyes, he can escape it no longer.

_ Yesss, panic. Ssso sssso scared. Stabbing pain from the sharp blade. Ssstay alive, don’t give up. Sssscreaming in lungfuls of icy water, ssscreaming out garbled nothingss. No one to hear beneath the waves, nothing but empty darkness. _

His tears mingle with the salt water that will become his grave. He is so frightened. And then…

_ Ssso unfair, not ready to go, ssso desperate to live. And then… _

_ Aziraphale? _

Aziraphale wakes with a jolt as the book slides from his chest and drops to the floor with a dull  _ thud _ . He is sweating despite the falling temperature of the room and his heart is jumping from the shock of the sudden awakening. He sits up groggily and tries to make out the time from his wristwatch on the bedside table, but the fire is all but burnt out and the embers are barely glowing so it takes his eyes a moment to adjust well enough to make out the hands: two fifteen. He groans under his breath. The storm is still blowing outside the walls of the lighthouse and he can hear the waves crashing and booming out on the water. He retrieves the fallen book from the floor and places it back on the table, fully intending to rearrange the pillows behind his head and attempt to get a few more hours of sleep before dawn. 

That is when his blood runs cold and the bottom falls out of his stomach. Someone is downstairs. He can hear a voice.

_ That voice _ .

The voice that has been whispering to him on the wind ever since he got here, the voice that has been following him for days, haunting him. It has finally caught up with him on All Hallow’s Eve, just like they all must have known that it would.

Aziraphale instinctively lunges out of bed. He thinks of Jacob’s rifle, stashed -he realizes mournfully- behind the front door by the decrepit coat rack. His eyes, now adjusted to the darkness, dart around the room.  _ What can protect you from a ghost? Iron and salt, the old stories said. But there’s salt aplenty here, and yet the dead are risen. _

He grabs the poker from the fireplace and tiptoes to the door. He pauses behind it, hand hovering over the latch. The words from the ground floor can be heard clearly now, the eerie voice sounding almost human for the first time as it bounces across the stone walls, coloured as it is with something that tastes of grief.

“...sssso cold. ‘Sss alwaysss so cold here. Lonely.”

Aziraphale opens the door, quietly, carefully.  _ Do not get caught.  _ He slides out and tiptoes across the landing.

“Been trying sso hard. T’ keep them sssafe. Keep  _ you  _ sssafe,” the voice laments, choked and heavy, and he notices the way it slurs and hisses on the sibilants. 

Aziraphale takes the first step with eyes tightly shut, anticipating the creak of an ancient floorboard that never comes. Silently, he takes another step, then another. He doesn’t know what he will do once he reaches the ground floor.

“I couldn’t help you, I wasssn’t good enough. Too late now, even if you come back for me ’s no use. I tried ssso hard for you. Was ssso much easier, being sssstuck here when you were here too, I waited sso long… Why aren’t you here?” A sound that resembles a sob, broken and heart-wrenching, follows the mournful words.

Aziraphale feels his own eyes misting over as the humbling truth of that sound cuts through his fear to tug at his heart. Whatever he is about to find down here, it is filled with a burden of pain and despair that Aziraphale cannot help but feel for. He presses on downward. A few more steps and past the next landing then the central room will come into view.

“I didn’t tell you. I couldn’t, too dangerousss. But I- I can’t do thiss,” the voice weeps. “Hurts. Hurtsss more than dying. I loved you. Ssstill do.”

Tears cloud Aziraphale’s vision, he can’t stop them, so many that the world becomes a blur. He misses the next step and stumbles noisily to the landing. Metal clangs against metal as the poker clatters against the railing, so loud it drowns the thunder outside. The world freezes with Aziraphale as he steadies himself, the weeping and garbled words from the room below cutting off in an instant. Then there is the sound of breaking glass, and Aziraphale descends the rest of the stairs in a reckless run. As the main room comes into view, he can just make out a shadowy figure, darker than the blackness of the night dashing towards the exit. He reaches the ground floor just as the door crashes open. A flash of lightning outlines the figure in the doorway, just for a second, black with a blaze of red, lean and tall. It disappears down the footpath in a rush of movement, and Aziraphale sprints to the door.

_ Get to the sea! Get to the sea!  _ Frantic thoughts spring into his head as he crosses the threshold.

The shower of icy water pouring from the sky jolts him out of his dazed state and he stops. He is standing on the drenched path in stockinged feet, nothing but his undergarments and a thin nightshirt to protect him from the wrath of the storm and whoever -_whatever _just ran away into it.

_ What on earth am I doing?  _ Aziraphale questions as he runs back up the path, his teeth already clattering. His body is wracked by violent shivers by the time he stops at the doorway, not all of them because of the cold that’s seeping into his bones. He looks out to the footpath once more, still finding it empty as far as he can peer through the driving rain. Then, slowly, as if his vigilant gaze is the only thing keeping Hell’s leagues off his doorstep, he turns back towards the room. 

He expects more damage than he can discern with the little light leaking in from outside. He can see pieces of broken glass glinting on the floor; It’s a miracle he didn’t step on any on his mad dash out. There is a pair of rain boots by the entrance and belatedly he pulls them on to protect his feet. He latches the door behind him, but it feels useless. Whoever-  _ whatever-  _ was just here is clearly not hindered by such mortal means as heavy wood and metal locks _ . _

His trembling fingers stumble with a box of matches from the mantlepiece and he breaks several before finally getting one to catch before setting it to the wick of the lamp on the table. He manages to get a fire going despite his shaking hands and his clothes and hair dripping all over the wood and kindling. There is very little relief to be found, even standing directly over the flames and Aziraphale curses at… he’s not sure.

His heart is still hammering in his chest and his lungs struggle for each breath.  _ There is not enough air. He is drowning. Not pulled, pushed.  _ He lets out a low keening sound and his hands claw at his own chest.

“Breathe, dammit!” he commands himself.  _ Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. _

It’s under control now. Everything is under control. He gets up stiffly, goes to the kitchen to get a dustpan and brush.  _ Inhale, exhale. _

He gathers up the glass. It smells, ever so faintly, of rum.  _ Inhale, exhale. _

There is no other damage to the lighthouse that he can find.  _ The lighthouse! As if that’s what is in danger. _

“There is no such thing as ghosts, no such thing,” Aziraphale says. His voice rings small and empty. “Someone is- is…”

_ What? Braving stormy seas to give the lighthouse keeper a scare on All Hallow’s Eve? Only to disappear without a trace into the night? _

“A thief,” he mutters, painfully uncertain. _ A thief who takes the time to sit and lament over a glass of spirits? _

His whole body shivering, he sets himself to looking for what could be missing. At first glance everything is intact once you discount the glassware.  _ What could be worth stealing from here?  _ But that  _ has _ to be it. He is still shaking as he thoroughly sweeps through the entire lower floor and then the rest of the lighthouse. Just as he is about to give up, the realization goes through his heart like an icy splinter: there  _ is _ one thing missing; Jacob’s old black coat that he forgot to give to the boatman this morning. It had been hanging over the back of a chair in the kitchen. It isn't there now.

_ There is no such thing as ghosts _ , but dawn finds Aziraphale wide awake in his armchair with the iron poker resting across his lap, his agitated gaze darting back and forth from the latched door to the shadows around the room that seem to shift and change of their own volition, just out of the corner of his eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always thank you for reading. We promise, not the entire fic is going to be nothing but a spookfest, but it needs to get worse before it gets better for poor Aziraphale. Tune in for chapter 4: Ghosts and Spirits.


	4. Ghosts And Spirits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale seeks answers, which only worsens the nightmares -asleep and waking- on the Lighthouse island.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are back. And urging you to check out the amazing [art](https://twitter.com/Ecchimas_art/status/1195026464443453440?s=20) made of Lighthouse Keeper Aziraphale by [Ecchima](https://twitter.com/Ecchimas_art?s=20) .  
Music suggestions for this chapter by [Robyn](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZN9G9Y-tARs) and [Jack](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o3Jq35HZuCg)

A brilliant autumn sun rises the morning after the storm and even the mist retreats; a rare sight for the season. Aziraphale feels like the heavens are mocking him. _ What are you afraid of? There is nothing here but the sky and the sea and the morning breeze; is a little rain and a stranger in the night all it takes to shake you to your core? _He finds himself wondering the same thing as he looks out to a calm blue sea with tired eyes. The events of last night feel like a strange dream, stranger even than the one he was having before he awoke to the terrors in the night, brought on perhaps by a combination of too much drink and an overactive imagination. But the shattered glass in his dustbin and the poker set beside his armchair are real enough. He stands dithering in the open doorway cradling a mug of strong, sweetened coffee and allowing the rich aroma to fill his nostrils as it drifts upwards with the steam. It is rejuvenating, and as he finishes the bittersweet drink he formulates a plan.

Ten minutes later Aziraphale can be found on the small jetty at the water’s edge, struggling to untie the knots securing a heavy tarpaulin over the little boat which has been tied up there undisturbed since his arrival. It had been his intention to haul the little dinghy out of the water to inspect the hull before taking her out on the waves, but a cursory glance tells Aziraphale that she, like everything else on this God-forsaken island, has been well cared for. _ Hope, _ read the peeling letters on the side of the hull. _ Isn’t that poetic? _He clambers down into the small vessel with minimal effort, unhitches the mooring line, and pushes away from the jetty. 

It is harder going than he expects; Aziraphale knows that he carries too much weight around his middle and that he gets out of breath more easily nowadays, but he thinks himself capable enough for most of the activities he needs to undertake. This is testing his limits however. The currents are strong and fight to pull him out into the open water, and when he looks that way towards the distant horizon, he can see shards of rock protruding above the surface when the waves are at their trough; this is a tough strait to manoeuvre on a calm day, no wonder so many crews have difficulties navigating this shore in the winter months. 

_ The boatman made it look easy_, he thinks. He concentrates and pulls with a steady, even stroke, feeling the strain in his arms and down his back as he finds his rhythm, and eventually begins to make headway on his journey back towards the mainland. _ Don’t think about the splash in the water, the black and red shadow beneath the sea or the one standing in the doorway in the storm, don’t think about the sucking power of the waves drawing you downwards or treacherous hands pushing you under. Forward, inhale, up, pull, exhale, down; forward, inhale, up, pull, exhale, down. _

It takes all his courage to keep going, to ignore the shapes creeping into the edges of his vision, but Aziraphale focuses on the task at hand and with great relief he finally feels the boat bump into the stone steps of the little harbour at the bottom of the village. He makes sure she is secure before half-stumbling up the uneven steps and into the streets beyond. He is feeling the strain of his ordeal more keenly now, and after the loss of a night’s sleep and the physical exertion of getting himself here, it takes all his remaining focus to guide himself to the front door of the inn. It is just approaching ten o’clock and he pauses for a moment, hand raised ready to strike the heavy oak; early by an innkeeper’s standards. _ You owe me some answers, Mr. Howell, and this time I won’t be played for a sucker, _he says firmly in his head, making a concerted effort to believe it. He brings his fist down and pounds on the door. 

* * *

“I’m coming, I’m coming, what the hell is all this racket about…” comes the grumbling call of George Howell as he approaches the entryway. Aziraphale can hear the heavy bolt being drawn back and the key scraping in the lock before the door finally swings inward on its hinges, and he is just a little gratified to see the look of shock that flits across the bleary-eyed barman’s face. 

“Mr. Howell, good morning, I appreciate the hour may be a little early for you, but might I come in?” Aziraphale forces his own face into a stern mask and convinces himself to speak steadily.

The other man looks frightened now, and Aziraphale feels himself soften. “Please,” he adds, “it is very important. I… I had a visitor last night and I think that you might be able to tell me something about him.” 

There is no mistaking it now: George visibly pales in the gloom of the unlit passageway, and without saying another word he steps aside and gestures Aziraphale in. They make their way into the bar and George slips behind it out of habit, pointing to the bottle resting on its surface. Aziraphale nods; he wouldn’t normally drink this early, but today the rules don’t apply. He is gratified when the barman joins him and pours out two measures. 

Now that he is here, Aziraphale feels foolish. What exactly is he hoping to achieve? What does he want from this conversation? He takes a deep breath before beginning.

“I wanted to see you… I needed to ask… it’s difficult you see... umm... well, I wondered if there had been any problems with robbers or the like in these parts? Smugglers perhaps?” he stumbles out at last. _ Not the strong start you were going for. _ He knows it is a weak premise, but he is desperate to find an answer that is rooted in reality. He tries to maintain his composure as he waits for a response, taking a sip of the whiskey in his glass and approving of the fiery burn at the back of his tongue.

“No smugglers in these parts, they learnt long ago that they were as like to lose their cargo or their lives as to be able to get anything ashore here.”

“And thieves?”

“We get the odd peddlar comes through once in a while, but it’s hard to get to down this way and they don’t come in the winter months. Not that all of them are light fingered, but you know how it is. Other than that, I’ve known everyone here my whole life and they might not be sparkling characters but they’d not steal from one of their own,” George replies pointedly.

“But I am not one of their own, am I?” urges Aziraphale.

“You’re out there in that lighthouse making sure that those of them who have no choice but to brave the waters can be more hopeful of making it home. To them, that makes you one of us, doesn’t matter if you’ve been here a week or a lifetime,” the other man insists. “I can’t say as I like to hear that you’ve been having trouble, Mr. Fell, but I would be careful about accusing folk before you’re sure what it is exactly that you think has been happening. Be awful to alienate yourself when you just arrived,” George continues in a tone that says _ be careful what you say next, Mr. Fell, you might be one of us, but despite what I just said, it’s still early days. _

Aziraphale swallows, more nervous now and feeling the panic of last night beginning to rise again. _ Don’t stand out, don’t cause a fuss, blend in with the locals. _ The locals. They all believe in ghosts anyway, don’t they? Or at least, they believe in sea monsters and mysterious men who haunt the cliff tops at Halloween, and if he is entirely honest with himself he can’t be sure that he hasn’t already seen one or both. He removed his hat when he entered the inn, and he is aware that he is twisting it nervously through his hands. He places it on the counter before him and releases a long shaky breath. _ Here goes nothing. _

“If there are no smugglers, and I take your word for it that the locals are trustworthy, then could you kindly help me to understand why a man was in my home on the ocean in the middle of a storm, and why the only things he took were some of the very fine rum you sent me and Mr. Abelson’s old coat? Can you tell me that? Can you explain how a man could be there one minute and completely vanish the next? Because I cannot, Mr. Howell. I cannot explain why I have been hearing someone whisper my name on the wind since the night I got here, or why things disappear from where I have left them, or why I am sharing someone else’s nightmares, or indeed why any of these things are happening to me!”

He knows that he sounds on the edge of hysteria now, and he forces himself to breathe deeply through his nose for a few moments. George remains silent, but Aziraphale sees that his fingers are white where he leans on the bar between them, and when he looks again, he sees the man’s lips pressed into a tight line and his eyes showing the whites around the pupils. He is deathly afraid too. In that moment, Aziraphale feels a little less alone.

“Please, I need you to tell me what you know about… about Jacob Abelson, the last lighthouse keeper, and about the man… The Dark Hallow’s Man. I can’t fully explain it, and I can’t believe that I am saying this out loud, but I think that I’ve seen Jacob’s ghost. What’s more than that... I saw something else. I saw something in the water.”

His words seem to hang in the air before him, and he wishes that he could scoop them back up and swallow them down, pretend that he had never uttered them and that they held no power over him, but they are there now, glowing in the weak morning light filtering through the grimy windows.

George observes him for a while, and at long last something of the stocky man’s reserve seems to crack. He blows out a deep sigh and seems to visibly deflate, his shoulders slumping forward and his face ageing a decade in a second. It is as though he has removed a mask that he has been wearing for a very, very long time, and Aziraphale is so startled by the transformation that he is shaken awake from his own panic. _ Did I find the right question to ask? _ He waits as patiently as he is able, letting the silence stretch out between them until George begins to talk.

“I can’t tell you everything, partly because I don’t know it all, and partly because some of it is private and has absolutely nothing to do with you,” he looks fierce again for a moment as he says this, then softens as he continues. “A lot of what I know is just gossip too, mind you, so it’s up to you how much store you put in any of it. You understand?” he glares intently at Aziraphale who can only manage to swallow and gently nod his head. 

“Alright then. God Almighty, where do I even start. You want to know about Old Jacob, and I suppose he’s as good a place to begin as any. Born here in this village seventy-two years ago and I’m damned if I ever knew him to set foot over the boundary wall. On land, that is. He was always out there in the cove, and out to the lighthouse too, and then out as far as he dared into the open water in that little boat of his. Always jumping in and out of the sea, never paying any heed to any of the warnings. We’ve had troubles in these waters as long as anyone can remember, it’s not just a recent thing. Had a knack for reading the tides and the winds too, did Jacob. He would’ve been an excellent sailor if it weren’t for that chest of his.”

The barman stops briefly, drawn back into the past and remembering so much more than he can express in words.

“Well,” he continues, “I don’t know all of the details, I wasn’t that old myself at the time, but he went out on the ocean one morning and they found him later that day, gasping and barely breathing in his boat which had somehow come back in to the shore despite the tide. He would never say exactly what happened, but he was covered in bruises and marks that those who saw would swear looked like scales branded into his flesh.” 

George takes a moment to let his words sink in, and Aziraphale feels his skin ripple as the hairs stand on end. 

“He was never the same after that, and I don’t just mean his lungs. He knew he would never be able to go out on the sea properly again, no captain would take him in that state. You’d think it would break a young man, being made to stay in a place like this when his spirit was made for exploring the world. After that day out on the water, it was like he couldn’t see the point of leaving, like there was nowhere else in the world that was worth being. He was always so full of life, even when he was bad and struggling to make it from one side of the room to the other he would laugh it off like nothing in the world could touch him.” A sad smile plays in the corners of George’s eyes now at the recollection and he falls silent.

“He sounds like a wonderful young man,” Aziraphale prompts gently.

“He was, you’re right. I suppose it was only natural that when Old Emory Wilde passed away it was Jacob who wanted to go and tend the lighthouse. He never lost his love of the ocean no matter what it had done to him. Or what had been done to him in it,” he says with a dark look on his face. 

“The thing you’ve got to know about Old Jacob is that he was still as bright and vibrant as ever, still kind and good-hearted. But after that day he kept his distance, never wanted to have visitors, never wanted to leave the shore or the lighthouse for longer than he had to. It was like he was trapped here by something.” He looks up, straight into Aziraphale’s deep blue eyes. “Or someone."

"Since then I’ve asked folk who were around at the time, had my own reasons to find out more you see. Without exception, they all confirmed the same thing: that day when Jacob went in the water there was a stranger seen walking near the village, watching from the hills as they were carrying Jacob off the beach. A tall man, gaunt, skin the colour of whey and hair like hellfire. Some of them thought that there were rumours of someone like that being seen up there before, others couldn’t remember that far back. They all remembered that he was dressed in black and they thought that Death himself had come to fetch the young man away. See, we might be a superstitious lot, but you can’t really blame them, given that it was All Hallow’s Eve.”

There is silence in the inn for a moment, a cart rolling over the cobbles somewhere lower down in the village the only sound drifting in from the street.

“You think it was him. The Dark Hallow’s Man,” Aziraphale nearly whispers.

George takes a heavy breath, as if the weight of all his years has decided to settle solely in his lungs. “I… maybe. It’s hard to say. Probably. I don’t want to talk about him. I’ve thought about it a lot though, especially since Old Jacob passed. Everyone assumed that something tried to drag him down to the bottom that day, but what if they got it the wrong way around? What if his soul was destined for the sea that day and something pulled him _ out, _ and he had to pay the price, pay it back if you like_? _Maybe it wasn’t so much as he didn’t want to leave all those years, but he couldn’t. Maybe... he still can’t.”

Aziraphale feels his blood run cold, the chill spreading from the back of his neck to the tips of his toes. He was looking for rational answers, not his own madness to be confirmed. His horror must show, because when George speaks next his voice is apologetically soft. “I’ve gone and scared you worse than your ghost did.”

The new lighthouse keeper pauses for a second whilst his mouth attempts to catch up with his mind which is thundering along at break-neck speed. “So, what you’re saying is, if I understand what I presume you are implying, that Jacob was saved and his soul claimed by The Dark Hallow’s Man? But surely that would make this Hallow’s Man of yours old, _ very _ old nowadays, and hardly likely to be sending Jacob’s ghost after me in the small hours of the morning? Who _ is _ he, Ge-”

“I already told you,” George cuts him off with a growl, “who he is isn’t important and I only know so much anyway. This is what I think about Jacob, Mr. Fell, but it’s just another story. Anyone you ask has one about the poor old soul. He was seduced by sirens and sea witches, he broke bread with demons, he sold ‘is soul to the Hallow’s Man to live forever- well that one ain’t gonna be said no more now. But I also know this: things not of this world only have as much power as we give them. Whether it’s poor Jacob’s restless soul or the Hallow’s Man himself, they can’t get closer than you allow them. Are you a man of faith, Mr. Fell?”

_ Faith, _ Aziraphale thinks, and he almost laughs. He used to believe, but according to his faith he is already damned. _ Maybe they got it right after all. _He shakes his head.

George sighs. “Me neither, but sometimes saying a little prayer can’t hurt.”

* * *

A little fishing boat going out to take advantage of the break in the weather agrees to take Aziraphale back to the lighthouse when he stumbles down towards the water’s edge. He is too weary to fear the waves on the return journey and instead sits there in numb silence, the gnarled old skipper having to shake him gently by the shoulder to encourage him to disembark at the other end. He finds the door locked just as he left it, which provides a measure of reassurance. Until he opens it, that is, to find muddy footprints leading into the kitchen. He follows them to find the tap running into an overflowing sink, water pouring down to the floor. Turning it off and mopping up the water is easy, but it takes him an hour to unclog the pipes. His heart drops into his stomach when he finds the mulched clump of wet paper and ink that had been blocking them, and recognizes it as some of the drawings from the leather folio. Sleep comes fitfully that night, but still Aziraphale refuses to pray.

The next morning he wakes to find the fireplace not only cold, but wet. He knows even before he brings his moist fingers to his tongue that it will taste of salt. There is a trail of fresh seaweed and pieces of driftwood up and down the winding stairs, from the bottom floor to the top. He is relieved to find the lamp intact at least, and he feels his brain becoming distanced as he cleans up the mess. That day he finds refuge in the woodshed, thankfully untouched and dry. He splits logs until he has blisters on his hands and every muscle in his arms cramps; he doesn’t feel it though, his body is as numb as his soul. He drinks before bed, a few generous measures of scotch to calm his nerves. Before he passes out he pours one final glass and leaves it on the kitchen table.

The drink is gone the next day, but so is every can of food in the small pantry. Panic seizes him until he finds everything- dented and dirtied- in the food storage shed and scattered across the path. He takes his first drink at midday, just as he finishes restoring everything to the pantry. He pours a little offering out again that night, and straight after he fills his own glass and downs it in a mock toast.

"Do your worst then, Mr. Abelson."

By the third day Aziraphale is not phased by the little acts of chaos, the frequency with which he hears his name hissed from behind closed doors turning it into little more than background noise. _ It is harmless nonsense after all, _he has come to realise. After enough drinks he can even forget to be afraid of the intent behind them. He is thankful enough for the late lighthouse keeper's liquor stock, discovered the day he had to reshelve the tins, and for reasons he cannot fathom he keeps sharing it with his spectral companion. Now he simply leaves out the glass and the bottle, and a different amount goes missing every night.

On the sixth day of this unhealthy dance with the devil, sleep deprivation catches up to him. He is not losing sleep because he is afraid of his ghostly visitor, but because the dreams of drowning become more and more vivid each night. _ You didn't even drown, did you Jacob? _No matter, now shapes dance at the edge of his vision even in broad daylight, and it's almost enough to put him off the drink. Almost. On the same night, already tipsy since late afternoon, he decides life may just go on. He pours himself what he promises will be the last drink for the night and goes to sit in his armchair with one of his favourite books. His well read copy of 'Middlemarch' is already close at hand and the perfect choice to become absorbed in without needing the focus required for an entirely new read. The prospect sets a spark of contentment fluttering in his breast. He peels the worn cover aside to reveal the title page, only to find his eyes assaulted by a dark black stain. The offensive ink is dry, as if the book was printed this way; with a blooming spill instead of words. Aziraphale turns the pages with growing horror and finds the same thing across the entire tome. All eight hundred pages marred and defaced.

Something breaks inside Aziraphale in that moment. He lets the destroyed book fall to the floor; an old friend's corpse falling limp at his feet, and he stands on shaking legs.

"What do you want from me?" He shouts, voice cracking. "I- I'm trying to respect you, respect whatever it is that you want!"

He gestures widely to the building around him, splashing whiskey from the glass in his hand onto the stone flags. "I'm trying to take good care of her. Doing my best!"

The voice that has so often teased him on the wind stays silent.

"You don't want me here? Guess what? I didn't want to be here either, to bother you. I have- I have nowhere else to go! I’m stuck here too!"

The end of his sentence turns into a strangled sob that is followed by more of them, finally breaking free after being suppressed for so long. It is as though an entire storm had been trapped in a bottle which has finally shattered to release its wrath. And why not let it out now? There is no one here to see him, _ to shame him for it. _ No one but a dead man who refuses to rest. The memory of All Hallow's Eve night surfaces in his brain, the sorrowful words he overheard.

"It’s just me here now," he says, more quietly now. "N-not whoever it is you're looking for, whoever you’re waiting for. That man… it was a man, wasn’t it, that you… loved." He murmurs the word as if it has the power to hurt him even out here.

But his words are a torrent that cannot be stopped now, even if his voice drops to a scared whisper.

"He… He must still be here somewhere, since he's not there with you. Why don't you go and find him, for all the good it will do you." He sniffles, and he feels the lump in his throat overtaking him again. 

"F-for all the good it did me…"

Even in the empty firelit room, with only ghosts for company, Aziraphale can't bring himself to speak of it. Fear has beaten into him what shame failed to before it was too late. He tightens his hand around his nearly empty glass to stop the trembling. His knuckles go white and still he shakes. He stares into the glass at the last few sips of amber liquid as if they are to blame for everything.

In an uncharacteristic fit of rage, he hurls the glass across to the stone wall. The loud shattering brings him a measure of satisfaction, but it's short lived. Breaking things won't make him less broken, he knows that.

Legs suddenly feeling weak and uncertain, he stumbles back into the armchair.

"Is it really that wrong, to love?" he cries out. Words which he knows will fall on deaf ears. _ God does not listen, or He does not care; it doesn't matter which. _Still, as he curls up into himself and weeps, strangled questions escape his lips- the closest thing to a prayer he will utter.

Aziraphale cries himself to sleep huddled up there on the armchair, the fire glinting off his tear-stained cheeks as it fades to glowing embers then cold charcoal and ash.

* * *

Aziraphale's neck is stiff and it takes a moment for him to realize that the pounding that just woke him is not coming from inside his own head, but rather from the front door.

"Mr. Fell? Are you alright, Mr. Fell?" A vaguely familiar voice accompanies the loud knocks.

He makes to call out, but his voice comes out as a dry croak and he coughs. He scrambles to his feet, half expecting the room to spin. It doesn't, but a stab of pain hits him between his eyes and he staggers a little.

"Mr. Fell!" The damned voice shouts with growing urgency.

"Coming!" He groans.

In the blessed silence that follows he takes a moment to get his bearings. He squints against the light pouring in through the window; faint as it is it hurts, each ray a knife stabbing through Aziraphale's skull.

Eventually he stumbles all the way to the door, lifts the latch, and after preparing himself for the bright morning to assault his senses, he pulls it open.

"Mr. Fell, are you alright?"

Through squinted eyes, Aziraphale sees the boatman's face screw up in mild concern.

"Oh dear, is it delivery day already?" He mumbles.

"Ah, well no. I was in the bar last night and George mentioned that you came ashore in a bit of a state a few days ago, and I thought I might as well come by early, calm sea and all." He shrugs.

Aziraphale is taken aback by the unexpected act of kindness. "Oh, I- Thank you, that's very kind of you."

"Hardly," the boatman dismisses, and then, for the first time since Aziraphale met him, his mouth twitches up into a smile. "Had a few too many last night, then, Mr. Fell?"

"'I’m afraid so," groans Aziraphale.

"Nothing some laudanum can't fix," offers the man in his uncharacteristically high spirits.

"Lau- Oh, my dear fellow, some aspirin and a good cup of coffee will be more than sufficient," Aziraphale chuckles. "Do come in, won't you?" he offers, before freezing in his tracks as he realises something.

"Oh my, how terribly rude of me, somehow in all this time I have yet to ask your name." Aziraphale blushes slightly, ashamed of himself.

"'It’s alright, happens more often than you’d think,” the slender man says as he removes his round tinted glasses. “Name's Crowley."

"Crowley," Aziraphale offers a soft smile, "a pleasure to properly make your acquaintance."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, did you see this one coming? Tune in for Chapter 5: The Boatman Brings Hope


	5. The Boatman Brings Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The storm ends, and Aziraphale enjoys some respite and the beginning of a new friendship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are again, as promised. Something softer this time around.  
Music suggestions for this chapter by [Jack](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SWYG7lZBc6U) and [Robyn](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PkNC6yaqvF4). For returning readers, this has been added to all previous chapters too as of now.

Aziraphale enters the lighthouse with Crowley at his heels, remembering too late the state of the place.

“I, ah, dropped a glass last night it seems, please do mind yourself. I’ll just go and get the dustpan…” Aziraphale improvises as best he can given the hangover that is worsening with every second.

He bustles out into the kitchen and returns in a moment, sweeping up the mess as quickly as he can and cringing inwardly at the general collection of detritus around the room as he takes the fragments of glass away to dispose of them. There are used plates and mugs piled on various surfaces, and Aziraphale is acutely aware of his unwashed hair and scruffy beard.

“I see you abandoned Hope?”

“What?” Aziraphale squeaks in shock. _ Is it really that obvious? _

“Jacob’s boat, Hope, you left her tied up at the harbour the other day. Well, she’s your boat now I suppose. Anyway, I recognised her at once.” 

“Oh...oh, of course, yes I did didn’t I,” Aziraphale replies with evident relief which instantly morphs into shocked incredulity. “I completely forgot. I… I wasn’t feeling well, so I got dropped back here by one of the fishermen. Gosh, I should have thought of that. I’ll need to get her back over here somehow…”

“No need, I’ve brought her with me, she’s tied up on the jetty there. I’ve not had chance to cover her over yet but I’ll do it before I go.”

Aziraphale feels something catch in his chest. It’s not that it is a grand gesture, but a gesture it is, and the simple, spontaneous kindness of it leaves him reeling. “I… you brought her over here...by yourself? Well, I... I don’t know what to say. Thank you is the least of it.”

“Don’t. Really, no need. It’s nothing, just bringing her back where she belongs, it’s not a big deal.” Crowley looks uncomfortable and he suddenly seems awkward where he is, still standing at the threshold to the front room.

“Well, can I at least make you some lunch? You must have quite an appetite after your exertions.”

“Tea’s fine, thanks all the same. You carry on though, unless you’d rather I go?”

“No!” Aziraphale is surprised by the fervor of his own objection, and he sees the other man’s lips quirk up slightly in that tiny smile again.

“That is, I mean, I would be delighted if you would stay a while. Frankly, things have been a bit...unsettling here since I arrived and it’s nice to be having a sane conversation with a normal human being. If you have the time then I would very much like for you to stay, at least until you’ve had something to drink. Now that you mention it, I am a little peckish, and there is some excellent cheddar in the pantry…”

They soon move through into the kitchen where Crowley lounges in one of the chairs at the small table, for all the world as though he belongs there. He listens attentively as Aziraphale bustles about boiling the kettle on the stove, making tea, flitting in and out of the small pantry, and generally seeming to exude as much energy as possible to keep the conversation flowing and his guest entertained. Crowley in return seems genuinely interested in engaging, and without noticing it, Aziraphale begins to feel lighthearted and warm for the first time in weeks.

The weather is fine in a crisp wintery way, and they decide to make the most of it and take their steaming mugs of tea down to the water’s edge. They sit with their legs hanging off the pier, looking out across the wide ocean before them. Perched there with good company and light conversation, it is difficult to fear the waves, and Aziraphale finds himself experiencing the peace and calm that only the gentle ebb and rise of the tides has ever brought him. A sad smile settles on his handsome features as he realises that this is a comfort he had never expected to lose. He sits staring into the water for a long time before he becomes aware of Crowley saying his name.

“Hmm?”

“I just asked what it was that you were thinking of, you had such a queer look on your face.”

“I suppose I probably did. I was just realising that in all the time I’ve been here, I have yet to simply come down here and appreciate the ocean and her beauty. I’ve spent half of my time listening to gossip and stories and scaring myself senseless, and the rest of it trying to appease those who are already dead. I should’ve been out here, where I belong.” 

“I can’t say that I fully understand you, Mr. Fell,” says Crowley, a tense look deepening the fine lines at the corners of his light brown eyes behind those peculiar tinted spectacles. _ How did those not strike him as odd before now? _

“Please, it’s Aziraphale, Mr. Fell sounds so stuffy.” He cannot help but laugh at the incredulous look and raised eyebrow that Crowley flashes him at these words before he continues more lightly, “yes, I know, it probably looks like it suits me, all the books and fussiness, but that isn’t me, not really. Well, maybe a bit.”

He sobers then as he thinks about what he wants to tell this unexpected newcomer. He sighs, part of him not wanting to end the reprieve from his struggles that he has found in the pale morning light with this stranger who could -_ does he dare to hope? _ \- become a friend. He had not thought to count anyone as a friend ever again. _ Have not thought myself worthy. _ He is tired, his head, though soothed by the sea breeze, still throbs, and he can no longer maintain the pretence that he is unaffected by everything that is happening in this place. _ At this point, what is there to lose? _

Before he knows it, Aziraphale has told the slight man beside him everything that has happened to him from his arrival to the village to the morning after All Hallow’s Eve, when he jumped in his little boat and paddled back to shore, and then on to all of the dreadful things that have happened since. As before in the kitchen, the other man listens attentively, not interrupting and seeming content to allow Aziraphale to conclude his story before giving any reply.

“So, Old George told you that he thought Jacob was what, possessed by some sea monster and forced to do the bidding of a creepy wizard?” Crowley finally says in a tone that is difficult to read, though Aziraphale does not feel that he is being mocked, which is something at least.

“It would seem so, yes. Normally I would brush it all off as the sort of silly superstitious nonsense that you always get from seafaring folk. Goodness, some of the tales I’ve heard folk tell in my time: people who swore they’d seen Atlantis, others who claimed to have been shipwrecked by a great big Kraken from the deep… But this is different, Crowley. This time… I’ve seen things myself. Things have happened here that have shaken me to my core. Things that have made me wonder whether the stories about being punished for our wrong-doings mightn’t be true after all… things that make me wonder...” 

His throat grows tight and he struggles to swallow around the growing lump of emotion as he looks down at the mug in his hands. _ If I did the wrong thing, if I deserve this punishment, if The Dark Hallow’s Man has aimed true with his malice and judgement... _

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” Crowley interjects more softly than Aziraphale would have expected him to be capable of, “not if you don’t want to. I can see that you’ve had a hard time, and not just since you came here. There’s more, isn’t there? From before? Don’t think I didn’t see you eyeing me like a nervous bird about to be caught in a trap when I first brought you over here. You sat there with your hand halfway to that knife in your belt for most of the journey. And there’s that too..” he gestures to the shiny scar on Aziraphale’s cheek.

“So I guessed you’d had some trouble. Don’t tell me now, tell me another time, only if you want to. I should’ve said something before now, I knew you needed a friend, stuck out here all alone. It’s just… difficult with you being out here. I’m a bit of a surly bastard and I get stuck in my ways. As for the rest… I’m sorry for that. Not the welcome you deserved I’d say, with everything you say has been happening.”

It is enough. Aziraphale cannot say why, but somehow these few simple words from someone who is barely an associate seem to soothe his soul and ease some of the weight of his burdens, and he feels his shoulders lift a little. He gazes out towards the blue and lets the vastness of it fill his mind, washing away a few of the dark shadows with every new cycle of waves cresting and falling. He licks his lips where they have become dry in the wind and tastes the tang of salt mixed with the sweetness of the milk in his tea.

"Are you not afraid? That there is something out there?" asks Aziraphale finally.

Crowley takes a long sip from his mug, brow furrowed in thought.

"There's more tales of the sea than there's men who’ve tried to tame it. There's something out there alright, but I think that maybe it just _ is, _like the fish and the tides and the seabirds."

“Are you saying that it is just...ineffable? Just something that we cannot understand and therefore should just learn to live with? Or in spite of?” 

‘I don’t think I’d ever use the word ‘ineffable’ to describe a sea creature or a ghost, but I suppose so. Why do the fish swim? Why did you come here? Why did someone or something try to drive you out of your mind and out of this lighthouse? Why did I decide to see you today? We all have our own reasons for doing the things that we do; sometimes we can explain them, and sometimes we can’t. Sometimes the only thing we can do is to accept things the way they are, and decide what we are going to do about it from here on. That’s what Jacob would’ve said. He would’ve been right too,” Crowley says, his eyes pointing towards the horizon though hidden behind his glasses, a resolute look fixed on his fine-boned features. 

“You speak about him as though you knew him well,” remarks Aziraphale softly after a few moments.

“I knew Jacob for a very long time, so yes. I know he wouldn’t want to cause anyone any suffering or pain, no matter what this ghost of yours would have you believe. He was a good man.” His face takes on a furrowed, closed off expression. Aziraphale repays the kindness he was shown earlier and does not pry any further.

They sit there at the water’s edge for a long time, watching the boats bobbing up and down alongside each other, listening to sea birds wheeling and cawing over head, sampling the salt-laden air in deep, heady lungfuls. They talk on and off, and when they fall silent it is companionable with no trace of the discomfort that can sometimes exist between relative strangers. At length, Crowley glances at his chunky wristwatch and proclaims that he needs to leave to be certain of the tide. Aziraphale joins him as he rises to his feet, legs stiff and buttocks numb from sitting still for so long. He doesn’t care though; he feels calmer than he has in weeks, and he realises that he is reluctant for the pale-eyed man to leave. His look of ill-concealed disappointment must be easy to read because Crowley gives him an almost indulgent look before strolling back up the rocky pathway towards the lighthouse with him, and Aziraphale has to hide his small smile of triumph. The boatman hands him the mug when they reach the doorway and pauses for a moment, looking as though he is coming to a decision about something. 

“I’ve got a feeling that things are going to get easier, Aziraphale. Just keep going. You’re doing us all proud out here, Jacob included, and I know he would be pleased to know that the lighthouse is in good hands. Just, uh, maybe ease up on the spirits a little, huh?” His shaded eyes roam freely over Aziraphale’s form from tip to toe before he continues, “And might I suggest a wash and an appointment with the clippers soon?” He is laughing now, and Aziraphale laughs with him, a light and tinkling sound that catches on the breeze. He watches the back of Crowley’s hat-topped head with reluctance as he saunters off back towards the jetty, and as he artfully manoeuvres his little boat out into the sea, Aziraphale's eyes catch the sun reflecting off the gold-rimmed letters proclaiming her name: Patience.

* * *

Aziraphale finds himself counting down to delivery days, and it's not because he's running out of tinned peaches. He anticipates Crowley's visit with excitement; the mere prospect of good company and stimulating conversation feels like a luxury he had been resigned to never indulge in again. And now, in the midst of the horror that was the past few weeks, it appeared to him like a shining beacon in the middle of a stormy sea. _ His own guiding lighthouse. _

Crowley also turned out to be right about the, well_, ghost situation_; things did get better after he left that time. Aziraphale doesn't know whether he assuaged the restless spirit or somehow scared it away. Sometimes he finds himself thinking that Crowley's words exorcised it, as if his mere power of will blessed the wooden planks of the lighthouse and laid it upon hallowed ground to drive the demons out.

He wakes before dawn on this particular Tuesday, early enough to brew a steaming cup of coffee and take it down to the water's edge, where he watches the sun rise behind the sea. The sky is set ablaze with brilliant oranges and molten golds that spill onto the surface of the water, building a shimmering bridge all the way to the shore. When he was a boy he once heard a fisherman from the north say that it was the faeries dancing on the water that made it glimmer and shift, and though he knows better now the thought still makes him smile. _ I understand why the first humans ate of the fruit and left The Garden, _ thinks Aziraphale, drinking in the glorious sight, _ for it was the only way to get to the sea, breathe in the salty air, and watch the sun rise and set over the water. _

If watching the ebb and flow of the waves brings peace to his heart, the sight of the familiar dinghy approaching around the island from the west makes it thrum with excitement. He pulls himself to his feet hastily and waves to his new friend.

"Oi! You're out early!" Crowley shouts across the water, in lieu of waving back. The going is too tricky near the island to risk securing the oars and letting Patience drift.

"Come and help me dock, won't you?" Crowley grins as he watches Aziraphale's eager scramble to the jetty, flashing brilliant white teeth towards him. _ Brighter than those first rays of the Sun, _ Aziraphale's mind supplies before he can quash the dangerous line of thought. _ Careful now, don't go there, didn't you learn your lesson? _

Between the two of them, they make quick work of tying the boat up and soon they are walking up the footpath side by side. His delivery today consists of a few- perhaps too few to warrant coming out here so soon, one could say- bags of produce and essentials, and they easily take everything up in one trip, their breath misting and mingling in the cool morning air as they fill it with light-hearted chatter.

It already feels like a familiar routine when Aziraphale prepares tea with Crowley lounging beside him in the kitchen. When a mug is finally placed in front of him, Crowley's expression grows earnest.

"So, have things been easier out here lately?" he asks, voice surprisingly small. "You sure look better," he adds with a grin.

"Ah, yes they have." Aziraphale beams at Crowley, smoothing down the front of his favourite waistcoat which he put on this morning without fully understanding why. He is pleased that his guest has noticed though. With things calming down he has had more time to spare for grooming himself: he likes to look his best, even when the only one to see him is mostly his own reflection staring back from the mirror.

"It's funny, ever since you visited the first time, it's as if you scared the ghost away." Aziraphale laughs.

A peculiar expression crosses Crowley's face, and Aziraphale can't help but feel he said the wrong thing.

"That's me, scarier than all the demons and ghouls," Crowley jokes but his voice sounds hollow.

"I mean, it wasn't a very scary ghost," Aziraphale attempts to shift the mood towards the light hearted. "Mostly made a bit of a harmless mess. More of a poltergeist really, a wily one, but nothing I couldn't handle. I only wish it hadn't destroyed my book, I was rather fond of it." His expression turns morose at the recollection.

"Oh. Which book was it?" Crowley asks.

"Middlemarch. My only copy too," Aziraphale grouses.

Despite himself he searches Crowley's face for signs of recognition. When he sees none he perks up.

"It's a lovely book, rather clever actually. So there is this little town…"

Aziraphale launches into a long winded explanation of the story, which grows more enthusiastic when the other man doesn't interrupt or even show signs of boredom. Crowley listens, a soft smile settling on his face which he promptly hides behind his mug. A warm thought hangs in the air, the source of which is impossible to trace: _ I could get used to this._

* * *

Crowley's visits soon become more frequent than just delivery days. "It’s a bit dull at home, and too crowded at the inn,'' he explains without being asked. While 'too crowded' is not how Aziraphale would describe it, the pressure of the scrutiny he received during his first nights there had certainly made up for the lack of numbers. _ Why look a gift horse in the mouth, so to speak? _The last thing on Earth he ever expected when he came here was to make any friends, _so what a pleasant surprise this is, don’t go worrying about it_. Aziraphale sometimes wonders what it says about his life that it strikes him as such a novelty. On other, darker occasions, a different voice that sounds more like ghosts from his past before he came to Eastgate tells him that he doesn't deserve it.

_ Would he come back if he knew what you are? _

When that voice surfaces, Aziraphale almost misses the one that used to hiss his name in the breeze. He still hears it sometimes, when Crowley can't make it out to the lighthouse to see him for days on end and his loneliness begins to stretch; _ it waits to prey on the solitary, it seems. _

It is on an especially windy day in early December, with an irritating thin drizzle falling from all directions and clinging inexplicably to every surface it encounters, compelling anyone to stay indoors, that Aziraphale is startled by an unexpected visitor. Not only it is not a Tuesday, but the conditions wouldn’t encourage a walk to the woodshed, let alone a difficult paddle across the bay all the way to the island. And yet there is the knock on the door, and sure enough when he opens it, he sees Crowley standing there, drenched and windswept.

"Dear Lord, Crowley! Did you row out in this weather?"

"N-no, I swam," says Crowley, the effect of his eye-roll diminished by the tremble in his voice.

“Dear boy, are you looking to catch your death?” Aziraphale fusses, pulling Crowley into the warmth of the front room.

Crowley makes a beeline for the fireplace, leaving a trail of leaves and muddy boot prints behind him. “It’s not all that bad,” he states, his teeth chattering and his hands held out over the open flames.

“Not all that- Crowley, you could have drowned out there! It.. it’s not safe!” Aziraphale can't help his voice raising as frustration floods him at Crowley’s disregard for his own wellbeing. “What possessed you to come out here on a day like this?”

Crowley pauses midway through peeling off his oilskin coat, which thankfully appears to have stopped most of the water from soaking through to his clothes. His expression turns incredulous now, as if there is some big piece of the puzzle Aziraphale is missing. “‘S your birthday. Wasn’t going to let you spend it alone.”

“Oh, it… is.” Aziraphale exclaims in surprise. His expression softens and his eyes widen then, and he instantly feels bad for his admonishing tone. _ Crowley remembered, even when Aziraphale himself did not. When did he even mention it? _

“Don’t tell me you forgot?” Crowley raises an eyebrow. “Gonna forget your own head next.”

“Crowley it… It’s not worth putting yourself in danger, it’s just a day,” Aziraphale mutters, guilt flooding him and making heat rise in his face.

“Danger? Pah, I’ve sailed worst,” proclaims Crowley.

Then he pulls something- two somethings, from the inside of the oversized coat. One is a bottle, which he hands to Aziraphale first. “You mentioned liking wine and you’ve got nothing but hard brown liquor here, so we should drink this today.”

Aziraphale accepts the bottle gratefully, a lump starting to form in his throat.

_ You utter sap, what are you getting emotional for? _He thinks as he takes it back into the kitchen. He returns to find Crowley holding out the other item, a small parcel wrapped in layers of waxed canvas.

“What is that?” Aziraphale's voice is small.

“Birthday present,” says Crowley, and at Aziraphale’s incredulous expression he adds “I brought the wine to drink it, it doesn’t count.”

Aziraphale takes the parcel, and he hates that his hands tremble ever so slightly, wishing he could control them.

“Happened to come across it, and I thought…” Crowley trails off, a hint of something like embarrassment in his voice that Aziraphale barely catches, occupied with unwrapping the protective layers around his gift.

The last layer is waxed paper, and no trace of moisture has reached it. As he tears it off a gasp escapes his lips despite himself. He recognizes the cover of his own -albeit now ruined- edition of ‘Middlemarch’ even before he reads the delicate lettering on the front side. He feels the pressure building in the back of his throat and behind his eyes; the kind he doesn't normally associate with happiness. But there is no other word to describe the sensation flooding his chest, threatening to spill out in the form of warm tears. It is a moment before he trusts himself to speak.

“Thank you, Crowley, this… this is so kind of you,” he chokes out. He ducks his head, embarrassment mixing with overwhelming waves of affection.

"'S no big deal. I know it’s not the same as your old copy, but at least you can read it again now." Crowley's words are a fast jumble now, falling over each other in their disoriented state. "'M not kind," he mutters low to himself.

Aziraphale, busy with collecting himself, doesn't catch the little comment. He finally manages to look up at Crowley again, a genuine smile lighting up his features.

"I'm so glad that you're here, even if I wish you were more careful out on the water." His tone veers just to this side of severe, but then his dazzling smile is back.

"Now, I hadn't prepared anything special, but I'm sure I could put together something to go with that wine you brought." Aziraphale walks towards the kitchen, and Crowley eagerly follows.

* * *

Aziraphale can count the happy birthdays that he has had on one hand. He never thought his first birthday as a social exile from his own home, stationed at a haunted lighthouse in the middle of a cursed sea, would make the short list. But here he is, pouring the last dregs of a rather lovely Merlot into Crowley's glass- that is to say, the glorified mug he has been using in lieu of appropriate glassware. 

He is laughing about something, the details of which become hazy as he turns his attention to not spilling the drink. _ Yes, hazy, that's one way to describe the state of his head right now. Pleasantly, gloriously hazy. Warm, safe. _

"...sso he says… says t' the skipper that it'ss the Kraken coming after the ship." Crowley dissolves into giggles at the recollection of his own story.

"Kraken. Great big bugger," Aziraphale chuckles into his empty glass.

"We're.. right pissed ain't we? Cor, it’s gonna be fun trying to ssteer the boat like this." says Crowley.

"No one's getting in any boat whilst they’re inber-ineb-nbb...drunk," says Aziraphale.

Crowley laughs. "Haven't you ever met a sailor before?"

"'M serious Crowley, storm's gathering too, you shouldn't go even if you were stone cold sober." Aziraphale looks out of the window to the dark sky smothered in storm clouds, and it sobers him up somewhat.

"You stay the night here, right here, leave in the morning." Aziraphale pokes the lumpy sofa Crowley has claimed as his spot enthusiastically, still expecting a refusal, to have to put up a fight for his friend's safety. _ To have to convince him there's nothing unsavoury in his offer. _

Crowley just shrugs, face still relaxed and slightly flushed from the wine and his proximity to the fire and says, "You're right."

"And if- Oh…" Aziraphale blinks a few times, surprised at Crowley's words. His shoulders slump, releasing the tension that he hadn't realized was building there, replacing it with another sensation entirely. 

The silence that follows is a comfortable one. It settles around them like a warm blanket as they watch the crackling logs blaze, the flames shimmering in the fireplace. With the effects of the wine starting to dissipate and the wind whistling down the chimney causing the fire to tuck and dance, Aziraphale gets up and offers to make them something warmer to sip on. 

“Cocoa?”

“Perfect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, as always. Tune in for Chapter 6: Aziraphale Falls


	6. Aziraphale Falls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The storm always follows the calm, and the sea always claims its prize; dawn breaks at Eastgate By The Sea and there is something in the tumultuous water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. For this chapter, I want to give very special thanks to robynthemagpie_writes, my lovely co-author, becuase I went through a very rough time when this chapter rolled around and she wrote the entire thing almost by herself, both to cheer me up and to keep our schedule running. All the love and honks to you for making this update possible <3  
Music suggestions for this chapter by [Robyn](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V-E5eLOc5uo) and [Jack](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xR8uvZTy9K4)

In his dream, he is drowning.

It is the same as all the others that Aziraphale has had since he came to Eastgate By The Sea, stuck somewhere between his own memories of his near-fatal accident as a child and something else entirely, like a memory but distorted and very distinct from his own. Maybe he and Jacob shared more than their chosen occupation in life; _ maybe Jacob is trying to show him his experiences whilst Aziraphale lies sleeping in what used to be his bed and Jacob lies sleeping under the ocean_. This dream is different though. Every other time he found himself in the murky waves he felt the icy chill of the water as he hit it, the currents pulling him under, and those strong hands pushing him under too, and he awoke at the point just before his rescue. He is always grateful to return to reality. It is not a pleasant place in which to linger; the fear of death and the burn of saline in his lungs are all-too real and his eyes always stream as he coughs up the phantom taste of it on waking. However he can’t help but wonder what the end to the other narrative is. He knows how his own story ended: With a strong pair of hands grasping at his shoulders and heaving him upwards from the hungry depths, wrapping him up so tightly he felt he was still gasping in lungfuls of liquid not the cold reassuring air. His father never held him like that before or since and though he had known that he was loved, it strikes Aziraphale that this is the only time he can ever remember his father showing it. 

It is the ending to the shadow-story for which he yearns and that he almost reaches out for whilst they are struggling there under the ocean together. _ What happened to you? _

Each night he wonders if it might be the night he finds out, and this one is no exception.

His tears mingle with the salt water that will become his grave. He is so frightened. And then…

_ Ssso unfair, not ready to go, ssso desperate to live. And then, bargaining, changing, alwaysss waiting, waiting to be free. _

_ It sstarts at Sssamhain according to them, but I’m alwayss here, alwayss watching, waiting for them to sssslip up. The winter ssstorms just make it easier. The sstorms that turn thisss strait into Hell on Earth. I alwaysss know when they enter my domain. I’m ready for them. I don’t let many sslip through my net. _

_ There are men in the water now, I feel it. A fishing crew too poor to forego a ssingle trip out; poor men who must risssk their very lives to put food in their children’s bellies and a few wet coalss on the fire. They are young men and their lack of experience hass cost them their boat and may soon cost them their livess. I can taste them in the water. I am coming for you… _

“No!” Aziraphale bolts upright in bed, his legs tangled in the sheets and his brow damp with sweat. His tongue feels thick and heavy from the wine he drank last night and he can taste salt mixed with the sourness. He bit his cheek during his abrupt awakening and the iron tang of blood is now discernable. His limbs are still heavy with sleep but his mind is racing and he feels jittery and on edge. _ It was just a dream, just the same old dream. Or was it? _

As the addendum to the usual viewing returns to him, Aziraphale feels his pulse quicken and a surge of panic shoots through his chest. He cannot explain why, but he feels the need to check that all is well so, dragging on a thick cardigan against the early morning chill, he hastily ascends to the top of the lighthouse. He is grateful to see the lamp lit and spinning smoothly, casting its yellow beam out into the wild morning beyond the window panes. It is already past sunrise according to his watch, but the deluge of rain that falls from the grizzled grey canopy overhead makes it look as though Dawn still waits to loose Apollo on the sky. The wind is fierce and he keeps back from the glass instinctively as the rain beats harshly against it, drumming an erratic rhythm. He circles the upper floor, peering out in all directions into the mirk, and is about to return downstairs to see if he can make a nice cup of tea for himself and his guest- his heart rises a little at the thought- when something catches his eye. _ Oh my God. _

A boat. There is a boat in trouble out there just beyond the shores of his little island. It is close enough that he can see just how bad things are. The hull has been smashed against the rocks and the vessel is now drifting apart, the pieces being thrown about wildly in the roiling waves. _ No doubt that is what woke me up. _

There is a narrow walkway around the outside of the lighthouse on this level, a waist-high railing along the edge, and a small door built into the rounded structure to allow access to the outside of the glass for cleaning and maintenance. Aziraphale wrenches it open and dashes out into the driving rain to try to see better. _ Is there anyone out there? Please God, let it be empty, let it have come unmoored from the harbour in the bad weather… _

But, as always, his prayers go unanswered. He counts the struggling figures of three men in the water and is just turning to rush back inside and down to the shore when he sees it out of the corner of his eye. A dark, sleek shape breaks the surface of the sea for a moment. There is something else in the water and it is heading directly for them.

* * *

Aziraphale rattles the steps with the full force of his weight and clatters loudly against the railings as he flies down the stairs to the ground floor in a mad rush, crying out in a garbled panic to the room at large as he runs past the coiled up heap of blankets on the sofa, trying to alert Crowley to the situation and stir him into action. He does not wait for a response, only crying out, “Hurry!” over his shoulder as he shoves open the heavy front door and races out into the rain once more. He is in a nightshirt and his habitual woollen trousers, and he is drenched to his skin by the time he reaches the water’s edge nearest to where he saw the wreckage from atop the lighthouse. The water running into his eyes is blinding him and he wipes it away as best he can as he scours the seething waves for any sign of the men, or the monster. The shore on this side of the island is elevated from the ocean and composed of jagged rocks and outcrops, and he grabs a coil of sturdy rope from the wood shed on his way down here, to use it to haul people to safety if he can. The shattered remains of the boat are flung around carelessly in the tumult and Aziraphale hopes that the men can steer clear of them, if indeed they are still afloat at all. 

_ There! _

He can see one of the men so close to the shore that, on closer inspection, he decides that a better word to use would be _ boy_. He is facing Aziraphale and waving his arms above his head wildly, causing himself to sink below the surface before coming back up again with renewed terror on his face. He cannot hear it over the wind and the rain but Aziraphale knows that the boy is screaming for help. He waves the coil of rope over his head, _ I’m trying to help you _, and sees the boy raise his arms skyward more slowly now.

_ Good, he understands, _ he thinks as he secures a firm grip on one end of the line and expertly tosses the other out into the ocean. He has a good arm and the rope is long, and luckily it falls into the waiting grasp of the stranded fisherman who grabs hold of it at once. Aziraphale plants his feet as best he can on the slime-covered rocks and begins to pull the man to safety. _ Pull, pull God damn you! _

_ Yessss, Aziraphale, pull and pussh, above and below, another one for me... _

This is the point at which two things happen simultaneously: the boy in the water, barely more than a few meters away from safety now, shrieks in terror and lets go of the rope. At the same time, Aziraphale, already shocked by the sudden reappearance of that hissing voice from his dreams, finds himself pulling against resistance that no longer exists. He lurches as he tries to regain his balance, then his bare feet slide on the treacherous rocks and before he can stop it, Aziraphale is falling.

It is like the lifelike dream haunting him for months finally becoming true. As the ice-cold water hits his chest he realizes how much worse the reality of it is. The impact knocks the air from his lungs and the freezing temperature makes him gasp in shock. As he knows he must, as he always does in the dreams, he swims up, breaks the surface and drags in a desperate breath. A wave crashes on his face and he inhales salt water instead. Spluttering and retching, Aziraphale fights to tread water and tries to swim back to the rocks but the currents are strong and the waters are relentless in their efforts to pound him into dust. He is knocked about and constantly dunked beneath the swell, rain still falling heavily from above. _ There is no air, there is only water, I cannot breathe. I cannot breathe. _

He is being swept out to sea, he can feel it, and he doesn't know what to do. In his rising panic he suddenly thinks of the boy and turns his head around looking for him, calling out to try to provide a focal point to descend upon. 

_ Aziraphale. _

Something breaks the surface of the water ten meters out. Something black and steely against the frothing surface of the sea. A little flicker of red at its edges. _ Oh fuck_. He forgot that in calling out for the boy he made his position perfectly clear to everything in the water, friend and foe alike, and the realisation paralyses Aziraphale like a shot of curare: he feels the terror mapping his veins with every beat of his pounding heart, spreading fear as it goes.

His eyes widen displaying the whites around those clear blue irises and his vision narrows in on the darker shadow moving towards him below the surface. _ Keep breathing, inhale, exhale. Keep kicking, left, right, left, right. Keep fighting, you've come so far. _

His chest tightens and his breath comes in short, sharp gasps. _ In and out, left and right. _

The lighthouse ghost might have given him a reprieve, but there is no denying the evidence in front of him now: the sea creature is very real. It has sundered a vessel full of innocent men and now it is coming his way. _ Keep breathing. Keep kicking. Keep fighting. Keep... _

He feels his tiring limbs, already numb from the freezing water of the sea, turn to lead as he finally loses control and accepts the undeniable truth of his situation. 

It is here. 

It is as John said: steely black scales on its back and crimson ones on its belly, the body so thick that Aziraphale does not think he could wrap his arms all the way around it were he to try. There is no way that he could guess at its length but the grocer has not exaggerated by much. The term Leviathan has never seemed so apt. It glides through the water as though it owns the ocean, the sleek body undulating as muscles contract and ripple to propel it ever closer, showing no sign of slowing or stopping. It is so close now that he can see the individual scales on the back of its head as it rises above the surface, he can see the eyes, _ those yellow snake's eyes, _and they seem to glow from within.

It is here. Aziraphale braces himself for what will come, tries to prepare to feel fangs tear at his flesh and grind his bones to dust. To be dragged, lifeless or perhaps still struggling beneath the waves. The storm still rages on around him, but he is immune to it, his body so overwhelmed that everything else vanishes; it is just him and the monster and the deep grey sea.

Panic seizes him before the waves do, and Aziraphale is being dragged under by the currents.

_ There's peace to be found in the deep. _

_ Not today though. _

_ Screaming out wordless terror, breathing in salt and death. _

_ Briny tears in the briny sea, I ran and I ran and still the monsters have caught up with me. _

_ I though the sea might absolve me of my sins, I thought I could wash them away, but I've had no time, I've not even begun and I'm tired, so tired, so cold… _

_ Here comes one monster to punish another, to pull me down... _

_ Pussssh, not pull. Up, not down. Sssso scared, don't want to die. Don't die. Aziraphale. _

His vision had gone black as he fell, but as his head breaks the surface of the water once more, the lightning bolts flashing and cracking across the heavens burn into his retina and leave ghostly impressions of themselves. _Strikes of serpentine gold, _there behind his lids when he blinks the rain from his eyes. 

His lungs are not working, he is still drowning and he coughs and coughs -_ a matter of time until his lungs give out, sprawled coughing in the dirt- _until he heaves up great mouthfuls of salt water.

His limbs tingle and burn as they flood with oxygen-rich blood and he cries out in pain and relief, then cries out in terror once more as he feels something wrap around his chest from behind.

_ Wrapping him up so tightly he feels he is still gasping in lungfuls of liquid not the cold reassuring air. _

It is not finished with him yet. He feels his body slammed against the rocky shore and looks around to see what has happened.

_ Aziraphale. _

_ Aziraphale. _

A figure looms over him, illuminated by the blue-white electric sky overhead. 

_ Oh sweet Jesus, protect me. _

_ Red hair. Dark clothes. Tall. Thin. _

_ The Dark Hallows Man. _

“For fuck’s sake, Aziraphale, can you hear me?”

* * *

Aziraphale kneels on all fours on the rocky shore coughing his soul out, trying to wring every last drop of the ocean from the spongy organs in his chest. His head is pounding and the wind screeches acutely in his ears. Indeed, every sense seems heightened, and he jerks away violently when he feels a hand on his shoulder, whipping around towards the touch and scrambling backwards into a crouch. 

His rough woollen hat has been discarded somewhere, and he is still wearing the dark clothing he came here in last night. Red hair, dark clothes, tall, and thin. “C-Crowley!” Aziraphale manages to stutter out, his teeth chattering violently, his throat raw and catching on the name.

“What the Hell were you playing at?” Crowley bellows down at him, eyes screwed up against the lashing rain, bent almost double and long legs planted apart to maintain his upright stance on the slippery surface. Aziraphale is disoriented, all of the facts of his recent encounter chasing each other around inside his brain, and he cannot focus on any one thought for long. He tries to stand and nearly collapses on the shore so Crowley grabs hold of his elbow and he is successful in righting himself on the second attempt. 

“H-h-how d-did I g-get out off the w-water?” Aziraphale asks, genuinely unable to remember.

“I saw you from the shore, you weren’t far out, managed to get a hold on you and drag you back,” Crowley supplies briefly.

“Screaming and kicking at me the whole way, mind,” he adds with a grumble, absentmindedly rubbing at the left side of his ribcage as he talks. It starts to flood back to him then: the battered boat; the boy and the other crew members in the sea, _the monster_.

"My God, Crowley! Did you see it? Did you see it in the water? It was there, I saw it, it was right there, it was pushing at me, I swear to God!" He is clinging to Crowley's upper arms with a vice-like grip now, as though frightened that he will be drawn back into the water if he lets go for even a second. He cannot tear his gaze from the sea, it has him captivated as it boils and churns to a white froth in the storm. The thought of the unfortunate fishermen urges him to let his hands fall from Crowley's arms and try to approach the water's edge.

"Come away, Aziraphale! Come back from the edge!" Crowley urges, voice loud above the crash of the waves, and he tries to pull him away from the slippery rocks. Aziraphale fights against the strong, wiry grip, desperate to see whether any of the men from the boat rise to the surface.

_ Where are you? Did it get you? God, please, please let them escape! _ The broken pieces of the fishing boat are being repeatedly dashed against the submerged rocks of the strait only fifty metres from where they still stand, and he scans the wreckage for signs of any survivors, checks the waters all around for any hint of the creature. _ Please, please… _

Out beyond the farthest fragments of the disintegrating boat, Aziraphale sees a small figure floating to the surface. It is too loud in the raging winds and lashing rain to hear him, but Aziraphale thinks that he can see the man waving his arms to signal that he is alive, that he needs help. The currents in the writhing mass of water are carrying the fisherman out towards the blue and every time he disappears and then reappears behind a swell in the waves, he has moved further away.

"There! Out there! We can still get to him before the creature does! Quick!" Aziraphale tries to pull away from Crowley again, back towards the ocean he was just reborn from, but Crowley will not let him budge. It takes a moment before Aziraphale realises that the other man is shaking him hard as though trying to wake him from a dream. _ A nightmare _.

"Are you mad? You can't go out there! It's too late! What the Hell is wrong with you?" He is almost screaming to be heard over the storm now, to be heard over Aziraphale's panic. Aziraphale finally drags his gaze away to look at the man holding him firmly by the front of his sodden shirt, pale brown eyes filled with terror and disbelief. 

"Why the fuck would you go in there in the first place? It's madness! What were you thinking? You could've been killed! I could've… What if I'd… I can't lose another… I can't believe you would be so foolish!" Crowley continues on, trying to be heard, trying to make Aziraphale pay attention.

But Aziraphale has stopped listening. He sees Crowley's mouth move and is aware that he must be making sound, but he is unable to focus on that right now. In this moment it strikes Aziraphale how many small details seem to sharpen and focus, and how many others seem to distort and fall away. The wind is gone now, as is the lash of the rain on his cheeks. He sees the sharp angle of Crowley's jaw, the high rise of his fine cheekbones, the way his light brown eyes glint and crease as he talks. The way his drenched shirt clings to his narrow chest and his bare feet grip at the rocky outcrop for purchase. The water dripping into his eyes from the thick mass of deep crimson hair plastered to his forehead, released from his discarded woollen hat for the first time since Aziraphale met him.

Crowley barely has time to catch hold of the lighthouse keeper as, utterly exhausted and spent, he collapses to the rocky ground in a dead faint.

* * *

Aziraphale carefully lowers himself into the dinghy, his eyes sharp and his hand itching for his knife. Crowley, gives him an odd little look. He has been complaining the whole way to the jetty, grumbling about being made to row them out at such short notice. But now he offers him a smile, soft, uncertain.

_ His hand is itching for his knife, and he feels the pressure of tears that will never be shed behind his eyes. _

Crowley rows steadily, with powerful strokes despite the look of him; slight, frail, _ unmanly _ . He takes them out past the lighthouse, into the open sea. He’s feeling afraid now, so scared, _ sssso sssssscared. Why are we going into the open water? _ _ Why are you giving me this look? _

Crowley is not wearing his cap, Aziraphale realizes between thoughts that feel foreign. Of course not, it’s summer; his billowing shirt hangs loosely on his frame, and he has even let his hair down to frame his face. _ Why, why do you have to provoke, always? _

_ His hand is itching for his knife, and he’s not going to cry. _

_ Sssso sssscared. _

_ Crowley secures the oars, _he takes his eyes off Aziraphale to turn around and drop the anchor of the little boat.

_ It sinksss down, down, down. Into the depths, whether the ssea is calm or enraged. _

_ His hand is on his knife. _

_ Ssssscared. _

_ Why? Why? Why? _

Aziraphale reaches for Crowley, like he has thought of doing before, with a hand that isn’t his own. Softly at first, then sinking rough fingers into the flesh of his arm.

_ The knife sinks into flesh, his left side burns with sharp pain, his fingers on the hilt become slick with warm blood. _

_ Why? _

_ Sssscreaming. _

_ Why? _

_ Over the side, into the water. Push, pussshed, sinking down, down, down. _

_ Why? _

_ Aziraphale? _

He wakes with a gasp, and the pain lingers._ Still cold, still wet, still dragged by the water, and also breathing air. _His eyes open up to a dark rumbling sky, and he sees flashes of lightning.

Strong arms bear him aloft and the rain washes him clean, washes away his pain and the blood from his hands. _ What have I done? _

He breathes harder, each breath a stab between his ribs, and it becomes darker. The fire warms his bones, and the sea must have run dry, _ dry at last. _ Gentle hands guide him, steady him. _ Crowley? _

The bed is not his own, it belongs to a dead man. _ Is he a dead man too? Doesn’t matter, it’s soft and dry. _ He lies down, _ guided, to shore, to safety. _

“Ssleep, Aziraphale,” says a voice -_ The voice? Which one? - _and Aziraphale sinks into a warm, comforting darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. The next one is going to be a bigger, and rather intense chapter. Buckle up for Chapter 7: The Islander.


	7. The Islander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake of the storm, Aziraphale tells his story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we had to add some warnings in the tags for this one, because things get a bit rough. Cw for period-typical homophobia, queerbashing, and the already existing internalized homophobia being very prominent. We tried to keep it as mild as we could without removing from the emotional intensity of it all, but it's still a sensitive theme and we urge you to take care of yourselves, so there will be warnings every time something particularly hard comes up in a chapter even if it's already warned in the tags.  
Music suggestions for this chapter from [Jack](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X9D3hB7L0xs) and [Robyn](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=psiILfa-G1c)

Once, when Aziraphale was young, his mother became very ill very suddenly. He would later learn that she was losing a child, a baby sister who might never draw her first breath, but at the time all he knew was that his mother’s screams of pain and anguish had sent him running to hide under the stairs, fingers stuffed tightly into his ears and eyes squeezed shut. He loved his mother so much and could not bear to know that she was suffering. So he did the only thing he thought he could, and he hid. He was not allowed his reprieve for long; his father thumped down the stairs only moments later, dragged Aziraphale upright by his shirt front, and instructed him to run - “_Run boy__!_” - to the next village over and fetch the madwife, or so he had understood it then, having never been acquainted with the word before . His father’s hands were red and sticky with something that smelled metallic and he wrinkled his nose at it, trying to pull away and avoid his father’s wild-eyed gaze. 

“I tell you, boy, if you don’t make it to that village and back within the hour and bring that midwife with you, you’ll have your mother’s death on your conscience, as well as that innocent baby. You hear me? Now run!”

So he ran. He ran, and ran, and ran, until he finally made it there and back again, dragging the midwife along by the hand to speed her up, falling again and again as his feet caught in the uneven tufts of grass in the fields they crossed, sending him sprawling to the floor, always getting up and running again to get back to his mother within the allotted time. He arrived, panting and wheezing, unable to do anything but crawl back under the stairs and pray that he had not killed his mother and the baby.

He remembers the cuts and bruises that ordeal brought him, the lingering spasms in every limb for days after, the stabbing ache in his ribs that made breathing difficult and the pounding in his head like a hammer on an anvil. Between his blinding fear for his mother’s safety and his own pain, it was one of the worst experiences of his life; and he knew that this was going to be another.

Aziraphale sits up slowly and squints in the weak light filtering through the small window of his bedroom. A fire is burning low in the grate and he sees his nightshirt from yesterday draped over the back of the chair a safe distance from the flames. He kicks off the heavy covers and swings his legs over the side of the bed, wincing and exhaling a soft cry of pain as he does. Every single inch of him hurts, and looking down at his bruised and swollen body he understands why.

_ Oh, dear God, all those men are dead. _ He pauses for a moment, trying to take in the reality of this and finds that he cannot. It is too awful to deal with immediately, so he pushes away the memories of the drowning men’s faces and turns his mind to more practical matters, such as his full bladder and empty stomach. Finding his feet cautiously, Aziraphale pushes them into a pair of worn slippers and chances a glance at his reflection as he begins to pull the warm nightshirt over his head. It is stained and torn in places, but compared to the mess of his face and body it is nothing.

_ How can he complain about a few knocks when he knows the dreadful end he narrowly escaped? _ Both his eyes are blackened and puffy, one eyebrow is split open and scabbed over with hardened black blood, and after closer inspection of the skin beneath his beard, Aziraphale finds a large bruise which explains why opening and closing his mouth hurts. The rest of his body is covered in an assortment of bumps and grazes, all looking rather ghastly but none more so than the left side of his torso where a long, wide swath of skin has been abraded and is now pink and raw. Around the edges of this area are bruises in the pattern of what cannot be mistaken for anything other than scales. 

_ I didn’t dream all of it, then. _His eyes widen, and Aziraphale drops his nightshirt the rest of the way before he drags on the thick grey-blue jumper that George sent him and slowly, painfully, he makes his way down the winding staircase. Each step brings a new jolt of pain; a promise of new agony that he faces down with gritted teeth; even that hurts.

_ At least you are still alive, and by the looks of it, not alone. _ The low orange glow of firelight coming from the ground floor, along with the sound of movement strengthens his resolve. _ Crowley stayed. _

He makes his presence known by allowing his footsteps to fall loudly as he reaches the bottom of the winding staircase.

"Aziraphale?" Crowley's voice rings out, raw and scratchy.

"Crowley, I-"

Aziraphale's voice catches in his throat as his eyes follow the source of the noise in the room. Crowley is standing in front of the fireplace, the layers of thick clothing he usually wraps himself in peeled off and set to dry with the exception of his trousers. Aziraphale's eyes take in the expanse of pale skin stretched taut over lean muscle with an unanticipated hungry urgency that makes his stomach churn and knot once he catches up with it. _ Three men have just died, and this is where your mind turns, this is how you repay the man who rowed here in the rain to keep you company on your birthday and then risked his life to make sure that you lived to see the next one? He saved you, and you...you… _

Aziraphale lowers his gaze away from his friend's exposed torso, his cheeks flushing as shame floods his chest, his mind, his entire being. As the image of nearly perfect alabaster skin burns behind his eyelids another thought cuts in. _ Nearly perfect. _ He remembers flashes of what happened in the water and on the shore, and one of these is of Crowley clutching at his side and wincing, and Aziraphale recalls something about _ screaming and kicking at me the whole way _. Immediately concern overcomes his dismay at his exhausted mind’s wayward thoughts and he moves towards Crowley, pushing his left arm aside to inspect his chest wall. Crowley complies and remains silent beside a sharp inhale at the sudden touch and movement. 

Sure enough, dark purplish bruises are deepening on the pale skin there, but that is not the only thing that makes Aziraphale gasp softly under his breath. Standing out all the more vividly against the darkened skin over his ribcage, just under Crowley’s left nipple and the dusting of hair there, is a thickened, shiny ridge of jagged scar tissue. He absentmindedly raises a hand to touch the place on his own ribs where the scar would rest, and he is reminded of something strange, something from his dreams and lightning spangled memories of the ocean and blood and drowning… _ What was it? _ He is not thinking straight and moves his hand from his own chest to run his fingers questioningly over the skin where the scar sits.

The instant that he makes contact with Crowley, Aziraphale draws his hand back from the raised skin as though burnt; he had not intended to touch the other man but was momentarily compelled to discover whether the scar would be rough or smooth, as it was hard to tell by the light of the fire. _ Don’t touch, don’t draw attention, don’t make that mistake. Stupid, stupid, stupid... _

"I'm so sorry, I..." Aziraphale chokes out. 

"'S not as bad as it looks. Doesn't hurt," Crowley tries to reassure him.

Aziraphale takes a sudden step back, then another as his breathing becomes fast and shallow, his vision narrowing and his fingers beginning to tingle. He stumbles dizzily to the side, and just as he feels his balance falter in a terrifying second of disorientation, strong hands grip at his shoulders to steady him.

"Aziraphale-"

"No!" Aziraphale pushes Crowley's hands away roughly, his whole frame shuddering. He lifts his head and catches the flash of hurt on Crowley's face, just for a second before he schools his expression and fixes his pale brown eyes on Aziraphale’s face.

"Aziraphale, it's alright," he says softly, palms held up in a placating motion.

Crowley's voice sounds far away, even though he is standing so close,_ too close. _ It's like the wind from outside has found its way into the lighthouse and is whipping around Aziraphale's head, muffling every sound under a cacophony of loud nothing.

"It's not alright, Crowley…It's…It…" Aziraphale's voice gets lost in his erratic breathing. Drowned under all the other voices surfacing in his head.

_ Unnatural. _

"Aziraphale?"

_ Depraved. _

_ " _Aziraphale…"

_ Sinner, cursed, damned… _

_ Aziraphale! _

He snaps his head up and looks at Crowley's eyes, brimming with concern.

_ I don't deserve this kindness. I don't deserve this friend. _

"You shouldn't… shouldn't help me," stammers Aziraphale. "Shouldn't have tried to save me."

"What? Aziraphale what are you talking about?" Crowley makes to reach out again, but he stops when he sees Aziraphale’s whole body tense.

"You shouldn't be here...Shouldn't be with…not safe, not safe to be seen with..." Aziraphale breathes, and breathes, and breathes but _there_ _is not enough air_.

"Aziraphale, I… I am your friend, let me help you, I want to help you." After he says this, Crowley breathes out heavily, his shoulders slumping as though the admission took some of the life out of him. 

"You can't… You don't know why I came here, what I- what I am." Aziraphale makes to take another step back, when Crowley's hands are suddenly back on his shoulders and sliding down to his upper arms, trapping him there like an iron vice against the wall he has backed himself into.

"Aziraphale." Crowley steps closer; he leans in and the sheer intensity in his voice makes Aziraphale look up to meet those eyes that shine like molten gold in the firelight. He holds his breath, trying not to inhale the scent that rises from Crowley's exposed skin; a mix of the tang of the ocean, the smoke from the fire, and something unidentifiable and, Aziraphale notes through the strain, distinctly Crowley.

"Listen to me, you can't…" Crowley’s eyes flicker to the scar on Aziraphale's cheek for a second. "You can't let your demons destroy you."

Aziraphale feels pressure behind his eyes, in his throat, on his chest. He wants to cry. He laughs instead; soft and broken, hollow like a sob.

"It’s better than becoming friends with them," he whispers.

Crowley makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat, somewhere between a whimper and a breath. His grip on Aziraphale's upper arms falters and as the pressure lifts, Aziraphale feels as though Crowley is about to slip away. _ He understands, he's going to leave. Leave me here alone with the ghosts and the monsters where I belong. _

Instead, fine-boned, strong fingers twist themselves into the fabric of Aziraphale's sweater sleeves. _ Still hanging on then. To pull or to push? _

"Try me," says Crowley, voice thick but steady. He is standing so close now that Aziraphale can feel Crowley’s breath against his face. "Tell me why you came here. Tell me why you think you don't deserve to be saved. If it… if you're as horrible as you say, I'll leave, I promise." 

Aziraphale holds Crowley's fiery gaze, vast and unshakable in that moment. His own eyes are pleading. _ Please, take my words and force them back inside my ribs; their jagged edges will tear and maim and hurt and suffocate, but then I won't have to tell you. You won't have to leave. I won't have to stop pretending that I deserve a friend like you. _

It's impossible. He can't change what he has said, and he can't change what he is; _ God knows he's tried. _ Aziraphale sighs and nods. He moves with Crowley to the sofa by the fire, their steps on the wooden floor echoing impossibly loud; _ each step another nail in the coffin. _ Crowley retrieves their glasses and the bottle of whiskey from the side, pouring them both a measure and handing one to Aziraphale before dragging the blanket from the sofa and wrapping it around his narrow frame. He settles down and waits.

"The fact of the matter is," Aziraphale starts after he's taken a moment to gather his thoughts and draw in a few calming breaths, "I had no intention of becoming a lighthouse keeper." 

* * *

It was late afternoon on a warm day in August, and the air felt thick enough to spread like freshly churned butter. Aziraphale felt a trickle of sweat run between his shoulder blades as he disentangled his limbs from his companion, stood up, and stretched. He straightened out his shirt and tucked it back into his trousers before doing them up and hoisting his braces into place over his shoulders, then he ran a hand through the rumpled hair at the back of his head to check for any telltale signs that might give away his afternoon's activities to a sharp-eyed observer._ God knew the island was full of those _. 

He gazed down fondly at the spare back of the dozing form before him, smooth skin exposed to find better rest in the cloying heat of the day, snuffling softly in his sleep. _ Lucas Fox, what a sight you are, _ he thought as a smile ghosted across his lips. He was getting sentimental about the whole thing, just as he knew he would even after promising to himself that he wouldn't. It was an arrangement that suited them both and it was pointless to try to make it into anything other than it was. Still, he could appreciate the view for a moment longer. _ Simply delightful. _As though attuned to Aziraphale's prying eyes the younger man -in his late twenties- rolled over lazily and half opened one eye to peer up at him where he stood. A carefree smile traveled across his features as he settled himself on his back with his head cradled in his hands, one foot tucked into the crook of the other knee. Aziraphale felt his colour begin to rise at this brazen display and found he could not meet Lucas’ eye. They had been meeting like this for months now, but only infrequently and never for very long, so he still felt awkward and flustered when comparing himself to this self-assured man. 

It wouldn’t be safe for either of them if people knew they were meeting like this; Lucas’ father was a wealthy land-owner and Aziraphale’s own family were well respected fishermen hereabouts, and his mother’s people had been in the local clergy for generations. So they met in forgotten sheds and dilapidated tumble-down cottages all over the island they both called home. He knew that what they were doing was considered to be wrong, sinful even, and every time they arranged their next meeting, every time he lost himself in Lucas’ embrace, every time he thought of it again afterwards when he was alone in the dark, Aziraphale felt a shudder travel down his spine and a sickening knot squeeze tightly in the pit of his stomach, shame creeping over him. Every time he thought about kissing those velvet-soft lips and inhaling the scent of the mingled sweat from their love-making, Aziraphale would hear his grandfather’s sermons clanging like a warning bell in his head.

“Give not into temptation, lest you would risk your place in Heaven: remember Eve’s great mistake in yielding to the devil’s worm when it crawled on its belly to greet her; remember her mistake in eating of the forbidden fruit and beginning Man’s Great Troubles; remember her choosing sin over obedience to Our Lord; remember Eve casting us all from The Garden and into the unknown world beyond. Do you wish to live a life of pain and suffering? Or do you wish to live in harmony with The Lord’s Great Plan for all mankind? Choose wisely, and follow a righteous path to live in Love and Grace.”

Those words echoed in Aziraphale’s mind as he struggled to pull himself back to the present moment and focus on what Lucas was saying.

“Come back down here, I’m not finished with you yet,” he said with a glint in his eye and a coy look on his face. Aziraphale checked his pocket watch and thought fondly of the pupil who was due to see him in just over an hour.

“I have a lesson with the Dowling boy at four, I should make my way back, I wouldn’t want to be late, he’s such a sweet boy…”

Lucas sat up and leaned forwards, shifting towards Aziraphale where he stood a few steps away. Lucas crawled up on his knees at Aziraphale’s feet and ran his hands up the back of his legs, applying enough pressure to be sure to send a tingle up Aziraphale’s spine even through the fabric of his trousers. He gazed up at the bearded man above him and Aziraphale could not look away; it was intoxicating.

“You know that I’m leaving tonight and I won’t be back for a month at least. Who knows when we’ll get to be together like this again… don’t you want to make sure I’ll have something to remember you by? You don’t want me to forget you that easily do you?” Lucas whined up at him before, his head being level with Aziraphale’s groin, he leaned in closer to make his intentions known. Aziraphale grabbed at the bare, muscled shoulders before him to steady himself, his eyes rolling shut and a small gasp forcing itself from his lips. _ Oh my goodness… _

It was a few moments before he remembered himself and his promise to a small, dark haired boy, and it took all of his limited self restraint to push Lucas away gently so as not to upset him. “Really, my dear boy, I have to go…” Lucas was approaching him again, a greedy look in his eyes, “No, truly, if I don’t leave now I will definitely be late…” Aziraphale insisted, holding the other man’s forearms and attempting to detach his grip but having no luck, Lucas being much stronger than him.

“I have to go!” Aziraphale burst out at last, much more harshly than he had meant to, feeling irritated and exasperated at Lucas’ reluctance to give in, and also at having to leave knowing that it would be their last chance to steal time together for some time. From the affronted look on Lucas’ face, he could tell that he was hurt and sure enough, the other man moved away in silence and began to get dressed. 

Aziraphale dithered on the spot for a moment before moving towards Lucas, reaching out to place a hand on the back that was turned towards him. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. I’m as frustrated as you are at all of this. I wanted today to be special too, I’ll miss you so much when you’re away. But if I don’t make it back in time for my lesson people will want to know where I’ve been, they’ll start asking questions, and you know we can’t afford that…”

His hand brushed the smooth skin before him, but only for the briefest of moments before being violently shrugged off as Lucas jerked around to face him, his eyes blazing with malice and a sneer twisting his lips and making him look...ugly. Aziraphale took a step back in surprise as Lucas advanced on him, leaning in and crowding his personal space. 

“You think they aren’t already asking questions? You think they haven’t worked it out? You think they don’t already know what you are, you dirty fucking pervert? Why do you think I’m being sent away for so long? Hah! My father would never say as much, but I’ve seen the way that he looks at me, what he suspects about what I get up to out here in the fields, and who I’ve been doing it with. He’s sending me away to separate us, he wants me out of the way before...” Lucas paused, and even though he was reeling with the shock of the hurtful things that were said, Aziraphale couldn’t help but want to comfort the man before him whose eyes, he realised, contained fear as well as hatred. _ Hatred for whom? Fear of what? _

He reached out for Lucas once more, and tried to speak though it came out haltingly.

“I had no idea. Why didn’t you tell me? I’m not a… you came to me, you sought me out! What we have is special to me, you’re special to me, Lucas. Please, let me help you, what can I do? I could come with you, we could go now! We could just...go anywhere. They can’t separate us if they don’t know where we are…” Aziraphale was pleading now, his heart pounding as he thought of a hundred things at once: Lucas’ father and his loyal group of friends all baying for his blood; his sister’s husband, Joseph, a zealous man with a quick temper and a high regard for his own standing in the community; Lucas, angry and scared and standing there before him now but sure to be drawn away in an instant; a young boy with dark hair and inquisitive eyes who would be wondering why Mr. Fell didn’t show up for his lesson, and why he never would again. 

His ears were ringing with shock at the possibility of discovery after so many years of hiding himself carefully in plain sight. _Never get involved with anyone local._ _Never let anyone know about the demons you carry inside. Do the right thing, follow a righteous path. Choose good over evil. _

It was Lucas’ turn to have to fight to pull away from Aziraphale’s grasp now, as he clung to the younger man like a lifebelt. 

“Let go! What the fuck are you talking about? We can’t run away together, it’s too late for that! And even if it wasn’t, I wouldn’t want to go anywhere with you! You think I really care whether I see _ you _ again? An overweight, ageing old nance who stinks of fish and this stupid goddamned island? You think I can’t do better than you? Oh, poor, poor Aziraphale, with his guilt and his rules. It hasn’t stopped you from coming crawling back to me all these months though, has it? Tell me, how many prayers do you send up after we’ve been together? You’re pathetic! You’re nothing, you mean nothing to me. You were just a distraction from the boredom of this wretched little place and these wretched little people."

Aziraphale, whose fingers were going white from the terrified grip he was maintaining on Lucas’ arms, let go and staggered away at these despicable words coming from the mouth of someone he had been starting to hold dear. The ringing in his ears was growing.

“What… what do you mean, what does that mean, Lucas?” he managed to force out.

Lucas finished buckling his belt and retrieving the rest of his scattered belongings before turning towards Aziraphale to respond.

“Goodbye, Aziraphale,” was all he said before he turned for the door, and left.

* * *

Aziraphale was not sure how, but the next time he looked up, dusk had gathered and the sky on the horizon beyond the empty window frame of the abandoned barn was beginning to darken. He jolted back to consciousness then, as he disjointedly realised that he must have missed his lesson with young Warlock. _Oh, damn, _was all his fretful mind could come up with at that moment. Everything else was simply too large to comprehend, but the idea of a small boy waiting patiently for him outside the front of his cosy cottage was enough to spur him to some level of action. 

_ What did Lucas mean before? _

He picked up his discarded waistcoat and light summer jacket from the straw bale in the corner where he had laid them down several hours earlier, picking fussily at a few dusty patches here and there. 

_ He didn’t even care about you, not one bit. _

Sliding both garments back on, Aziraphale headed for the exit and out into the gathering night. His feet felt like they were made of lead and it took a concerted effort to place one in front of the other as he moved forward along the familiar path towards the hamlet where his home lay.

_ If Lucas was right and his father knew what had been going on… _

He tried to fill his mind with thoughts of home: a flagon of cider from the cold larder whilst standing on the front step to watch the sun creep down; a chapter or two of his favourite _ Middlemarch _ to soothe his mind before bed; his soft downy mattress and cool sheets to help him to drift off to sleep.

_ If Lucas’ father knew about them, who else might he have told? Was Lucas telling the truth when he said they knew? Was it more than just cruel, scathing words? _

He just wanted to hurt Aziraphale, to push him away and save them both more pain in the long term, surely?

_ What if they all knew. What if they were coming for him? What would they do to him? _

He blanched at that, knowing full well the sorts of things that could happen to someone like him in a place like this. 

_Would anyone take his side? Would anyone stop them if they came for him? Theo. Theodora would._ _Not if Joseph had anything to do with it, though. _

Suddenly, the idea of going back to his cottage, comforting and homely though it might be, made him feel claustrophobic, and Aziraphale sensed his breaths become faster and shorter at the idea of being shut in somewhere away from the sea and the sky. His chest felt tight and no matter how deeply he inhaled, he still felt that his lungs hungered for more air. _ Breathe, just breathe. _ Without being aware of it, Aziraphale adjusted his course and followed his feet towards the ocean.

It only took ten minutes to get there, and he instantly tugged off his shoes and socks and waded into the shallows, the waves soothing his heated skin as they rolled in and out around his sodden trouser legs. The sky was clear and the air was warm, heavy with the rich smell of ozone from the sea spray that landed refreshingly on his face and clung to his beard. Whatever happened next, Aziraphale just wanted to be there for now, to live in that moment in the arms of the ocean, wrapping him in its loving caress and making him feel accepted by at least one place in this wide world. He stayed there for as long as he dared, wishing the rest of the world away and praying harder than he had in years for things to be alright. Aziraphale was an optimist but not a fool, and he could only make-believe for so long before the terror started to creep back in. He took one final look out to sea before turning with a heavy heart to make his way home. 

Aziraphale’s fear turned into grim certainty when he caught sight of Theodora running down the rocky footpath to the beach, the warm breeze pulling at her clothes and hair, her eyes wild and tear streaked. He stumbled up towards the path to meet her, unable to feel his legs even as they moved. 

_ She knows, _ he thought as his sister drew closer and he held her gaze, stormy but unreadable. _ Would it twist into disgust, pity? Would she scream at him? Push him away? No, not her. Please, not his Theo. _

His legs froze in place then, and it was Theodora who took the last few steps towards him, barely slowing down. She crashed into him with all the force of the waves pummeling the shore. Aziraphale gasped and pulled her into a fierce embrace. She felt so small right then, in his arms, so fragile; like the first time he ever held her, _ his little sister, the miracle child, God’s gift. _

_ What did that make him then? _

“Oh, Az,” Theodora cried, voice muffled against the front of his shirt.

The nickname, first borne when Theodora was a chubby-cheeked toddler, determined to call for her brother even when she couldn’t work around his full name, shattered something in Aziraphale’s chest. Tears started spilling from his eyes, falling into her white-gold curls.

“Theo, I…” His voice trailed off, words carried away on the summer air. _ What could he say to her? _

She pulled back then and looked up at him, eyes dry and burning with azure flame, her jaw set and firm. Every line of her face was drawn hard and taut; mooring lines stubbornly fighting the storm that stole the boats from the bay. _ She was stronger than him, had always been stronger than him. _

She pulled her arms from around Aziraphale’s waist, and lifted her hands to cup the sides of his face. Plump, callused fingers held him, firm but gentle, anchoring him there even as it felt his heart was about to fall through his chest and tumble into the sea. 

“Aziraphale, you have to go. They know, they…” She took a steadying breath. “Lucas Fox told everyone that you two… He said that you made him…” 

Her hands trembled, and Aziraphale could read the anger in her face. _ Not for him though, never for him _. He knew he should feel angry, hurt, betrayed. He only felt empty, like someone had carved his insides out and taken all of the anger, the pain, and the joy, and cast them to the waiting winds.

_ No need to worry for Lucas then, _ a bitter voice supplied. _ No need to worry, I can just wait here, let them come for me. _

“Aziraphale!” Theodora shook him out of his murky thoughts. “Joseph knows, and he’s… You’re not safe here. You have to cross to the mainland, I will make sure to send your things, but you have to go now!”

He held onto her for a little longer, as if to absorb some of her courage, unable as he was to find his own. He remembered the first time his mother had placed her into his arms, so impossibly small, bundled up in soft blankets. “You did so well, my angel. She made it, thanks to you,” she had said, and Aziraphale had soaked up the praise and the tenderness in her voice.

“You have to look after her, always,” his father had added, his gruff voice thick with something Aziraphale hadn’t been able to place.

“I will, always.” He had made a promise then, and the truth of it had carved itself into his bones. He still carried it with him now.

_ I am not the only one who’s not safe here if I stay, _ he thought. He broke the embrace, face set with a determination that matched hers. _ For her, for her children. _

“Don’t… Don’t do anything foolish, on my account,” he said, in the place of parting words. “Your children need their mother, and you need to be strong for them, no matter what.”

_ You need to be strong for me. _

She nodded, there was no time left for words, but her eyes said everything her mouth didn’t have time for. _ You too. I love you. _

Aziraphale took the path back towards the shore. It was the longer way to the harbour, through the dunes and cliffs and lesser known tracks, but it was the safest too. He turned around a few times and saw his sister climb back up the slope, her shoulders squared and her gaze held resolutely forward. So he too walked, through brambles and along beaches and cliff edges, the sound of the crashing waves a comforting companion.

When the port came into sight he felt some of the tension in his shoulders ease a notch. The streets were quiet, peaceful, as if his world hadn't stopped turning that afternoon. Just for a second he thought he would make it and get away, creep off into the night like the criminal they all considered him to be. For one shining moment, Aziraphale thought he was free. Then he heard the cries rising from all directions, his name being shouted back and forth across the hillside around him.

"There! He's there! Don't let him slip away!"

Aziraphale recognized Mr. Dowling’s voice, something dark and fiery colouring it well beyond its normal gruffness. More voices joined it, spitting insults and accusations. His head swam and his knees went weak. He felt himself start to slip forward as the enraged, jeering crowd closed in. _ This is it then. _

Rough hands gripped at the front of his shirt to pull him upright, almost lifting him off the ground. He was met by the face of his brother-in-law, red and angry and a breath away from his own, and he slowly tuned in to the man’s words.

“-you sick bastard!” Joseph punctuated each word with a violent shake.

“Joseph…” Aziraphale gasped in pain, the rest of his plea cut off by the blow to his stomach.

He fell to his knees, coughing up air as Joseph drew his fist back. 

“I let you into my home, near my children, you fucking pervert!” He screamed.

The mob was giving them a wide berth now, despite the naked rage and hatred Aziraphale could see plainly on their faces. Lucas’ father was holding a hunting rifle, Aziraphale noted numbly, but he didn’t raise it. This was Joseph’s business, they all seemed to have agreed._ His shame, his stain to wipe off the face of the island. _

Another blow, this time under his left eye, sent him sprawling backwards, coughing blood into the dirt. He could swear he had felt his bones crack under the pressure, sharp pain flashing across his face and then turning into a dull pulse. He tasted copper on his tongue and the black vignette to the edges of his vision crept in closer.

_ No, not yet, please I don’t want to die. _ He struggled to push himself up, to crawl away if need be. _ Anything, anything to live. _

The jeers and disgusting slurs of the crowd picked up; hungry sharks smelling blood in the water, closing in. _ Follow a righteous path to live in Love and Grace. Love thy neighbour. Did these people think they were what righteousness and grace looked like? _

Anger bloomed in his chest, first a spark, then a roaring flame. _ Crawl down the hill to the sea if you have to, but don’t die here at their hands. _

The sole of a heavy leather boot connected violently with his ribs; he heard, he _ felt _the flimsy things crack under the pressure. A crack like lightning, white hot pain blooming in lichtenberg patterns across his screaming nerve endings. He tried to roll away.

_ If you could just make it to the water, sink or swim, either would be fine, _he thought desperately. A flurry of kicks followed the first, each one more brutal than the last and he curled up, hands covering his head, unable to move.

_ This is it, I cannot fight them, why try? _His face grew wet and hot with silent tears and something thick and sticky; blood running from a gash on his cheek.

_ This is it. _

“Joseph stop!”

Theodora’s voice rang like thunder, and everything stilled. After everything, it was the sound of her voice that made Aziraphale cry in earnest. In relief, and in heart shattering fear. _ Don’t get yourself involved in this. Don’t pay for my sins, or for theirs. _

“Don’t get involved, woman!” Joseph growled.

Aziraphale’s breath caught somewhere between the relief and the fear. His lips formed the vowels of his sister’s name, but no voice came out.

“He is… He _ was _my brother, I am already involved.” Her voice came out heavy and cold, empty of compassion as she spoke. Not if you really knew her, though. Not if you had held her through countless nightmares, telling her stories of far off places and adventures to chase the dark away and replace it with wonder. Not if you had stood side by side at your mother’s funeral, hands clasped together even though you were nearly sixteen, nearly a man, knowing that it should have been you reassuring her that it was going to be alright not the other way around, knowing that she made it look to the gathered crowds like you were the strong one. 

Aziraphale heard Theodora’s seemingly cold, cruel words, and turned his head up, not towards her but towards the Heavens. _ Thank you, God. _

“It is for God to punish him for his sins, not us.” It wasn’t a plea, it was a challenge thrown in the faces of these angry men, convinced they were enacting divine justice. That was who Theodora had always been; an enduring island keeping the crashing waves at bay.

A quiet murmur went through the crowd that parted to let the small, fierce woman approach. Aziraphale flinched as she stood over him, next to the towering figure of her husband. _ If she can play her part, so can I. _

She sidestepped Joseph to stand directly over Aziraphale.

“Let him leave the island, never come back.” Her voice was thick ice, all her pain buried underneath it. Her eyes were burning with so many things; soft and desperate_ . So sorry, _they tried to say. Aziraphale had learned to read them, find in them those specific words she had never been good at uttering.

_ I understand, _he tried to say back without speaking. He had never been as good as her at it. He scrambled backwards in an attempt to get up on unsteady feet. He saw her hands wring the front of her skirts, knuckles painfully white, but she made no move to help him. She leaned down then, picked something up off of the ground and threw it at his feet; a rough canvas kit bag, thick and overstuffed.

“Get lost then,” she said. _ I am so sorry. _

He gathered it in trembling hands and said nothing. _ Thank you. _

He somehow managed to make it to the bay. Not alone, but followed by a now silent, grim procession. As if to make sure he wouldn’t turn and run back inland. _ As if he would have any desire to do so. _

He rowed himself to the mainland, arms sore and burning with effort, his head throbbing and blood pouring from the cut on his face; he couldn’t trust anyone from the island to take him, not if he wanted to actually make the shore. He crept down side streets and narrow passages until he made it to an inn, thankful for the money Theodora had hidden among the clothing in the bag. Nowhere near as thankful as when, a few days later, his bruises beginning to fade and subside, three wooden crates full of books arrived at his doorstep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you have it folks, another piece of the puzzle, and it's a painful one. Tune in for Chapter 8: Winter At Eastgate.


	8. Winter At Eastgate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things change between Aziraphale and Crowley after Aziraphale's confession. The holidays arrive with old traditions being honoured, and new ones being established.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one took us a bit longer than expected, but it's also twice the size of a usual chapter to make up for it.  
Edit: turns out an entire paragraph was missing, and we caught it a bit late but better than never  
Music suggestions by [Robyn](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c7AKy_WyIas) and [Jack](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZKEK5mVTOEo)

Aziraphale finds himself adrift between past and present as he tells his story. He is back on the island, pain thrumming through his bones, tasting bile and copper in the back of his throat. He is here at Eastgate, bruises darkening on his skin, savouring the burn of the scotch on the roof of his mouth. _ He must run, get to the sea and then wherever it takes him, up or down. _He stays painfully still, eyes glued to the flames dancing in the fireplace, not really seeing them.

The last part of his narrative slowly brings him back to the present, whether he is ready to face it or not. _ Whether he’s ready to face Crowley or not. _

"It was a week before I was in any state to leave the inn where I took refuge; a grubby little back alley place, no questions asked so long as you had the coin to pay for your bed and the tasteless stuff that passed for food. Not that I had much of an appetite; a cracked molar saw to that. I was quite trim by the end of that week…" he makes a weak attempt at humour.

"I left as soon as I could, made for the next town over just in case news was spreading from the island. I got some casual work at the docks processing the catch and doing some general upkeep for one of the fishing boats and I kept to myself mostly, but the captain was a sharp man, he could see that I was used to different work. I think he knew I was running from something. Hard to miss really, I twitched like a ferret every time someone came near me or called my name too loudly. I'd been there for a month when we got talking one evening and he told me about a job that he'd heard about from a friend of his, one George Howell of Eastgate By The Sea. He said they were looking for a lighthouse keeper, that it would be solitary work and the place was remote, and that somehow he thought that would suit me down to the ground. He asked me if I was interested, and I suddenly found that I was. The journey here was… less than ideal, but no worse than anything else that had happened up to that point. And you know the rest..."

Aziraphale trails off, gazing thoughtfully into the fire, his face carrying the weight of all of the woes of his tale in every crease and line. He runs a finger along the scar on his cheek and winces as he brushes one of the fresh bruises from his ordeal in the sea. He cannot put it off any longer. He must face Crowley. He finds tears pricking at his eyes, as they have at several points during his narrative, and he stares down at his now shredded fingernails as he continues.

"So that is my story and that is who I am. That is why I am here and why I panicked when I came downstairs and found you… When you were… When I touched you without thinking. I have tried to be good my whole life, but I always do the wrong thing and other people suffer the consequences. I don’t expect you to stay; I would understand if you didn't want to see me again after learning all this." Aziraphale finishes. 

A couple of heartbeats later, he finds what little remains of his courage and raises his face to Crowley's to see what verdict awaits him. He expects horror, or rage, or revulsion. He is half thinking that he might be about to receive another beating. What he sees instead strikes him dumb and shakes him to his core. 

Crowley is sitting very still, as he has throughout Aziraphale's story, but his fingers grasp at the arm of the chair so tightly that his knuckles are white and his arms shake slightly. His auburn hair frames a face that is drawn and almost haggard; Crowley looks as though he has aged a decade whilst Aziraphale spoke. There is something inscrutable in his expression, but his teeth are set hard and the tension is clearly visible at his jawline. All of these things pale into insignificance when Aziraphale looks directly into those ochre eyes and finds them brimful of tears to match his own, a few spilling down his thin cheeks onto his still-bare chest. Something passes between them in that moment, as their tear-brimmed eyes meet, that Aziraphale does not entirely understand, but the second it does he feels as though he can breathe again for the first time in months. It is like he had been wearing an iron cage around his chest that has finally been removed, and he gasps in a deep lungful of air before releasing it shakily. Aziraphale waits for Crowley to speak, and it’s another beat before he wipes his face with the back of his hand and finally responds.

"What they did to you… I'm so sorry for what you went through, Aziraphale. Know this: I will never judge you harshly for being true to yourself and you have nothing to fear from me. Not ever. I couldn't give a damn about that sort of thing. I care that you're a decent man, the kind of person who runs out into a storm to try to save others when there is no chance of success, or who tries to find compassion for those who have caused you suffering. You poured out a drink for a ghost when it haunted you, night after night, because you knew that it was in pain. You… you bring me hope, Aziraphale, that there are still bright things in this world worth living for. That despite the stupid fucking _ Lucas' _ of this world," he spits out the name like something bitter and unwanted, "there are people like you, and your Theo, who make it a world that I want to be a part of again." 

Crowley falls silent then and the only noise is the settling of the logs in the hearth and the wind whistling outside the windows. Some of the strain has left his features and his eyes blaze now, as though they have consumed some of the flames from the fireplace to burn from within. Aziraphale swallows back the tears that threaten to overwhelm him and a weak smile finds its way to his lips. Crowley reaches over and grasps Aziraphale’s forearm reassuringly, and Aziraphale knows that he is telling him that it is okay; that he can touch him like this, that he is not a monster for craving the simple necessity of human contact. 

Those fierce eyes are still reaching out to him as Crowley continues, “I want to stay, and I want you to know that you can tell me anything and I will always listen first and judge second, if I have any right to judge at all. I wish that we could just sit here and talk, and I know that you probably just want to go and rest, but there are things that need doing, things to take care of, and it’ll be easier with two.”

Aziraphale is still trying to process the capacity of this remarkable man to accept him and to brush aside his fears as though they were nothing more than trifles. He is suddenly buoyed up by the idea that there is someone who knows him- _ truly knows him- _and does not think him despicable, but he is brought back to earth with a resounding thud by these last words.

_ The fishing boat. The fishermen. The serpent. _

His face must show his dismay, because the grip on his forearm tightens slightly.

_ Washed up bits of boat debris on the shore; I didn't dream it all, then? The monster really is out there, and I left them to its mercy. _

_ “ _-ziraphale, stay with me.” Crowley’s voice is gentle even as it breaks through his stream of thoughts.

Aziraphale blinks slowly and the room violently snaps back into focus. He turns to look at Crowley and takes in his expression; he is starting to notice the almost imperceptible shifts in it. Right now it is filled with concern, evident in the deep furrow that settles on his brow.

“It’s not… I- It’s those fishermen. That boy, he looked so young, Crowley. I couldn’t get to him and… and _ it _ got him, the creature, whatever it is."

"'S not your fault, Aziraphale. I was there, and I'm telling you it was not."

Crowley's voice is clear, resolute. The lines on his face ripple and shift like the evening tide, speaking to some deeper undercurrent to those words. Aziraphale sees a reflection of his own turmoil in Crowley's face in that moment; there is anxiety, and guilt, and grief, all woven together in a tapestry which, in a strange paradox, seems achingly beautiful. It pierces him through and he is overcome by a need to reciprocate and tell Crowley that it is not his fault either, that he should not look so downcast, that it seems wrong for someone so warm to look so lost. _ No, his face was made to smile, bright and unburdened. _

It is this thought, as he looks into his newfound friend's face, that finally pushes Aziraphale over the edge that the events of the past twenty-four hours have brought him to. The rush of emotion seizes him out of the blue and drags him under.

The iron cage around his chest tightens once more until there is no room to breathe.

_ Keep it together, keep it under control. _

His eyes burn and the pressure behind them builds. He squeezes them shut but moisture still spills over at the corners.

_ Haven't you cried your fill? At the island and here, more than any man should. _

He turns away from the world, from the man still sitting beside him; he can't be seen like this. 

_ He cannot. He… _

The sob begins as a rumble somewhere deep in his chest; the grating sound of a weight, so terrible and heavy no one has dared touch it before, starting to shift. By the time it reaches his lips and tumbles out it is ground down into a broken thing, small, half choked, high pitched and breathy. Every bone in his body tells him to not let this out, not in front of Crowley, not in front of anyone. _ The last time he cried in front of others, they were kicking him into the dirt . _

Aziraphale feels Crowley shift beside him and he flinches. He tries to stop, _ stop this weak display, _ but any attempt to stifle his cries only makes breathing harder, his pleading voice even more feeble. _ Stupid! And now… _

A warm arm snakes its way around his shoulders, settles there and gives an experimental squeeze. A tentative, gentle pressure, asking for permission.

Aziraphale's body leans into Crowley's lean frame and waiting arms even before his mind can dictate that it is a bad idea. He is gently guided to rest his cheek against the blanket wrapped around Crowley's shoulders, his forehead pressed against Crowley's neck. It is impossible to will himself to pull away, enveloped in those strong arms, Crowley's scent all around him, becoming a safe harbour in the storm.

_ Just for a moment, a breath, a heartbeat, _Aziraphale pleads in his head. 

Crowley doesn't waver, he doesn't pull back even after several minutes pass and Aziraphale weeps on. He holds him firmly, flush against his chest, one hand tracing soothingly up and down Aziraphale's back. He doesn't say anything, neither of them do. 

Aziraphale isn't sure how much time has passed when he finally feels control beginning to return. He attempts to match his erratic breathing to Crowley's heartbeat, but that is too fast so he concentrates instead on the thin chest rising and falling. _ Up, down, in, out. _ He blinks the last of his tears away, and eventually he pulls himself up and free of Crowley's embrace. He knows not to expect scorn, but his heart still picks up in tempo as he searches those unusual eyes. _ Did I overstep? Will he be uncomfortable? _

Crowley offers him a smile that is soft and warm, with no edges to it or hidden barbs to snag upon. Aziraphale feels like he might cry again at the acceptance in that expression.

"Better?" Crowley asks, lifting one eyebrow the way he always does, that quirky half smile regaining its habitual place.

Aziraphale nods, not trusting himself to speak yet. His own lips turn up slightly and his chest feels so much lighter, the iron cage falling away once more. He breaks into a proper smile.

"Yes, thank you. Thank you so much for being so kind to me, for staying."

Crowley, _ self-assured unwavering Crowley _, makes a choked sound, like consonants desperately trying to rebel and become vowels. Aziraphale could swear that the faintest hint of a flush colours his cheeks and neck after he recovers, though it might just be a trick of the firelight.

"Shut up," says Crowley with no trace of malice. "'S nothing, any friend worth half their salt would do the same," he tries to dismiss, waving his hand as if to clear away any lingering doubt.

"Of course, dear," replies Aziraphale, his smile widening as he draws strength from the man at his side, sitting a little taller because of it. "Now, you are quite right, there is work to be done, but it's been a devil of a night, and one cannot work on an empty stomach. Lunch?"

"Ah, a man after my own heart." Crowley grins, with all the radiance of the sun and twice it's warmth. "Lead the way then."

* * *

The days that follow pass in something of a blur for Aziraphale, and he is more grateful than he can say to have a friend close at hand to help him get through it all. Crowley rows him across to the mainland on the afternoon of the day of his confession, and it is with a heavy heart that Aziraphale makes his way to the inn to inform George of the events of the previous night. He wants to tell him everything, to describe the creature that he saw in the water, to lift his shirt and show him the fresh bruises and scrapes from the giant scaled monster that attacked him. He is too tired, though, and too frightened, and besides he has other matters to attend to. He repeats his narrative again at the houses of each of the three men who have, in all likelihood, been taken by the sea. He grew up in a fishing community so he knows about these situations, but this is the first time that he has been the one to deliver the bad news himself and it weighs heavily on his shoulders. Crowley had offered to share this burden with him, but Aziraphale noticed the man's reluctance to go much further into the village than the harbour limits. Besides, no matter what Crowley says, it is safer for him not to be seen fraternizing with someone like Aziraphale_ , _and he plans to keep it that way for his sake.

He is grateful for the boatman and his strong arms once more as he bears them both back to the lighthouse in the fading light of the wintery day. It is only just past four in the afternoon, but Aziraphale thinks that this may have been the longest day of his life.

He offers Crowley his place on the sofa again, but he declines, and Aziraphale panics immediately, thinking that he has changed his mind, _ that he wants to leave and spread all of his secrets, that he will return with the mob at his heels… _

Crowley sees the rising panic in his eyes and rests a steadying hand under the lighthouse keeper’s elbow before explaining that he has things to do but he will be back. He promises. 

_ Promises are just words, they mean little in the end _, Aziraphale cannot help thinking, but he nods his understanding and chews nervously on his bottom lip as he watches ‘Patience’ disappear into the rising mist of the evening.

He sleeps fitfully that night, waking with every creak and sigh of the old building, his dreams plagued by the face of the youngest fisherman as he got carried away from safety, as well as the rippling body of the sea serpent gliding through the water towards him. He reads for a few hours at around three, choosing his newly gifted copy of _ Middlemarch _, and revelling in the fine condition of the edition and the smell rising form the thick pages.

_ What does that remind me of? _ He blushes in the darkness as he realises that it is that fragrance, that unique scent that rises from Crowley’s warm skin, and he shuts the book before hurrying back upstairs to the warmth of his room. 

Aziraphale must have fallen asleep at some point, because he is awakened the next morning by an unexpected hammering at the door. He jumps awake, losing his balance as his legs become tangled in the heavy blankets and he tumbles to the floor painfully. He lets out a loud groan as he rubs at his bruised ribs before hobbling downstairs on aching limbs. The broad grin of the man on the doorstep jars against his bad mood, but only for a moment as warmth floods through every ounce of his being. _ Crowley! _

“You came back!” Aziraphale has no control in that moment and the exclamation rushes from him before he can do anything to stop it.

“Course I came back, said I would, didn’t I? You gonna stand there gawping all day or can I come in for a brew? It’s bloody freezing out here.” Crowley is right: a bitter wind is blowing in through the open door and Aziraphale stands aside before hurriedly shutting the door behind him.

“We can have a cuppa then get down to the water and start clearing that debris, it’ll be quicker with two of us,” he pauses and eyes Aziraphale closely, “that is assuming that you’re up to it? You look dreadful, by the way,” he adds matter-of-factly, before striding through to the kitchen and setting to work filling the kettle. 

“No, no, I’ll be quite alright to help out, don’t you worry about me. Just get me a nice cup of tea and I’ll go and get dressed,” Aziraphale says, looking down at his dishevelled clothing and running a hand over the back of his hair to flatten it down where he knows it sticks up at the back. Lord knows what state his beard is in at this point. _ Not your main priority. _ He scurries away back up the stairs to dress and returns to find Crowley lounging at his ease on one of the hard kitchen chairs.

“We could sit through in the main room if you’d like,” Aziraphale offers, trying and failing to imagine how such a slim individual could possibly be comfortable sitting on a wooden chair. “I don’t mind, you know,” he insists.

“Nah, it’s alright, we always sat in here for breakfast before…” Crowley begins, before sitting up abruptly and looking as though he is about to swallow his own tongue.

Aziraphale hurries forward but by the time he reaches the other man’s side he seems to have recovered a little of his composure. 

“My dear, are you alright?” Aziraphale cannot help the endearment that trips off his tongue as he reaches out to pat him on the back.

“J-just… swallowed funny, that’s all, thought it was going down the wrong way, I’m fine, thanks,” Crowley sputters out, beetroot red, looking panicked and… _ guilty? _

Aziraphale is suddenly reminded of the times he caught Theo in a lie, and the sheepish face that would turn up to him as she waited to see what would happen next. _ How strange. _ Almost as suddenly as the thought crosses his mind though, Aziraphale finds it flitting away, and he focuses on Crowley again. 

“Well, so long as you’re alright now. Did you say something about being here for breakfast before? I know that you’ve mentioned being friendly with Mr. Abelson, but you haven’t told me that much about him,” Aziraphale continues conversationally, sipping gratefully at the steaming mug of tea he cradles.

Crowley’s brow furrows in frustration. “Not much to say, really. He was a good man, always kind to me. Of course, he was my father’s friend more than mine. I used to come in here with him when he was doing deliveries when I was a kid, then when I took over the job I’d pop in to say hello, since I was over here anyway, that’s all.”

Aziraphale cannot understand why, but he can tell that Crowley doesn’t want to talk about it, so he tries to steer the conversation into safer waters. He casts about for a better topic and his eye is drawn to one of the frames on the wall that has been knocked askew and cannot help reaching out to straighten it.

“I wish I knew where these came from, I would love to see some more, maybe add to the collection, they are so beautiful. I can’t make out the name though or I would ask George, it’s definitely a _ C _ and there might be, yes there’s an _ L _ and… Oh!” Aziraphale gasps as he suddenly, quite clearly discerns that the name he has struggled with for months is in fact ‘ _ Crowley’ _.

He withdraws his hand quickly and sits back down to gaze wide-eyed at the lanky man seated across from him. “Crowley! These say Crowley, don’t they? _ You _ made these?”

“Wha’? No! No, not me, no, my old man did those, little hobby of his, and Jacob saw one of them once and liked it, so it became a bit of a tradition for them. Like I said, they were friends,” he finishes. His eyes are soft and his expression grows distant as he seems to become lost in a memory.

Aziraphale reaches gently across the table and taps lightly on the back of Crowley’s hand, wrapped tightly around the scalding mug. “Crowley? Are you alright? I seem to be saying all the wrong things this morning, I’m sorry."

His words bring Crowley back to the present and he focuses on Aziraphale’s face again.

“It’s okay, it’s not your fault, I just… I don’t have anyone else any more, it’s just me again now that Jacob...now he’s…” 

“You miss your friend, of course you do. Well, that’s understandable, it’s only been a few months. Maybe you can tell me about him one day, when you feel like it.” He drains his mug and rises from the table, moving towards the pantry. “How about a spot of breakfast then we can finish bundling up the debris from the boat, if you’ve got time to lend me a hand, that is?”

Crowley looks out of the window at the sky, cloud-covered but dry, before answering. “My time is yours today, Aziraphale, I don’t need to be anywhere else.”

* * *

It takes days to retrieve every little piece of wreckage from the shore of the island, every one a reminder of the grim fate of the fishing boat and its three passengers. After that the event starts to fade in Aziraphale's mind; it is still there like the bruises and scrapes covering his body, but the pain of it is dull and ebbing and some days he forgets to feel it at all. Crowley's presence becomes a constant on the little island, Aziraphale's own lighthouse to guide the way when the waters of his mind become too dark and treacherous. He is eternally grateful, a fact which he expresses as often as he feels able, and which Crowley deflects without fail.

That is something Aziraphale comes to learn about his friend; he is not half as good at accepting compassion as he is at offering it. In fact, pointing out Crowley's kindness against his dismissals and deflection almost causes an actual altercation between them. Crowley flares up out of nowhere; _ “Nice? I’m not nice, stop staying that!” _ Once the tension subsides, Crowley retreats and folds inwards, eyes cast down and jaw clenched. He doesn't leave though, and when Aziraphale has calmed himself down enough to speak to the boatman again he can see the relief on his face, laced with guilt for his hotly spoken words.

Another thing Aziraphale notices is the way that Crowley often gets lost in his own thoughts and recollections. It is not that he doesn't pay attention to Aziraphale, in fact he proves himself an excellent listener time and again. But in times of companionable silence or a lull in the conversation, his expression drifts off beyond the walls that hold them. Aziraphale uses these moments to study the furrows on Crowley’s brow, the hard, downturned line of his mouth; e_verything he wishes he could somehow wipe away. _Before he knows it, he has committed every slope and angle of Crowley’s face to memory. On the rare occasions when Crowley removes his tinted spectacles, Aziraphale catalogues every brilliant shade that Crowley’s amber eyes take; in the sunlight, by the fire, in the dark of night when they almost seem to glow. Just when he thinks he has seen them all, a new one emerges and surprises him. These observations are things he keeps close to his chest, locked up and safely hidden away for both their sakes.

But Crowley also smiles more than he did when they first met, his bright unrestrained smile that Aziraphale has come to see as a precious, sacred thing. He allows himself to laugh, the sound filling the room and flooding Aziraphale’s chest with warmth. It is as though something was shaken loose in both of them that morning after the shipwreck.

It encourages him to reach out and be brave, little by little. Every invitation to come and get warm by the fire, every offer to stay a little longer- _ one more drink won’t hurt dear- _is a little leap of faith, a test to prove to himself that people can be kind and good and warm, and every time Crowley says "sure thing," Aziraphale is caught before he can hit the waves or be dashed against the rocks.

It is a few days before Christmas, the first holiday he will be spending here as the lighthouse keeper, and Aziraphale can’t help but hear his footsteps echo more hollow on the stairs than before as the reality of his isolation finally catches up with him. He could almost wish his ghostly visitor back into existence, the idea of that spectral presence being better than the thought of being here alone. He would normally be spending the day with Theo and the children, wrapped in their loving warmth and smiles. Crowley’s visits are the only thing that stave off the creeping loneliness, and Aziraphale is once again struck by the impact his new friend has had in the short months they have known each other.

“Aziraphale. Aziraphale?” Crowley grins when he sees he has Aziraphale’s attention again. “Penny for your thoughts,” he drawls.

“Oh I… It’s nothing really,” replies Aziraphale, shifting in his armchair.

Crowley is sprawled across his couch, doing his best impression of a sun-drying octopus, wrapped in more layers than is strictly necessary despite the chilly weather. Aziraphale finds Crowley’s never-ending quest for more warmth endearing; _ like a cat, basking in patches of sunlight and contentedly burying itself in blankets. _

Aziraphale rolls his eyes good naturedly. He pauses as he works out how to proceed.

“Out with it, come on,” Crowley urges.

Aziraphale takes a sip of his cocoa before he speaks. “I was thinking about the holidays,” he admits.

“Mm, what about them?”

Aziraphale fidgets and he finds he cannot meet Crowley's eyes. "Do you have any plans?"

Crowley takes a moment to respond. "Not me. But, uh, the people not celebrating at home are invited to the inn every year. That invitation extends to the lighthouse keeper, of course.”

Aziraphale starts, this being the first he has heard of it. "Really? George never mentioned it."

It is Crowley's turn to fidget and he looks flustered. "I think I was meant to tell you," he admits.

"Oh, Crowley, for crying out loud," sniffs Aziraphale.

"'S not too late, not like you missed it," Crowley mumbles.

"I'd better go," Aziraphale says thoughtfully. "It would be impolite not to show up for my first Christmas here." He can hear the reluctance in his own voice, the idea ringing with less appeal than what he had in mind when he asked Crowley about his plans. The unspoken words hang in the air between them and he tries to hide his disappointment at what they both know is an indirect refusal, and he finds himself wondering vaguely what Crowley will be doing instead. 

"What about New Year's Eve?"

"Hm?" asks Aziraphale.

"Let's spend New Year's Eve together, here. I’ll provide the wine," says Crowley, a hopeful glint in his eyes.

Aziraphale can't help his broad grin at the earnest display. "New Year's Eve it is."

* * *

Crowley offers to row Aziraphale to the mainland on the morning of Christmas Day, anticipating that the lighthouse keeper will be in no fit state to get himself home the following day, and pointing out that he has already left Hope behind once, and he’s damned if he’ll let him do it again. As always they part in the harbour, Crowley adjusting his woollen hat before sloping off and disappearing from sight amongst the small fleet of fishing boats. It is a sunny day, and despite the frigid wind Aziraphale spends the morning taking a walk along the shore and the hills overlooking it. The scenery reminds him of home, and a complicated tangle of emotions lodges itself somewhere in his throat at the realization. He makes his way to the inn early where he keeps to himself until midday when people begin to arrive for the Christmas Dinner.

Despite Aziraphale's anxiety about coming back here again to face further scrutiny, the afternoon wears on pleasantly. It seems the months he has spent manning the lighthouse are enough to put the villagers at ease, or at least to diminish their curiosity about him, and they give him a respectful berth. The people of Eastgate don't seem to share the religious fervour of the people back home; for them the holiday is just another reason to have a few more drinks and take a break from work. Between the liquor George keeps pouring him and the warm atmosphere, Aziraphale manages to feel at ease, content even. He cannot keep his head from snapping up every time the front door creaks open however, expression hopeful only to fall again. He knows Crowley isn't going to show, but the simmering hope keeps flaring up despite himself. It feels good to be here and he wishes he could share this time with the boatman.

_ You will be meeting him first thing tomorrow morning, you old silly, _he chastises himself. He raises a hand to George to ask for another drink then sits back in his corner of the room and lets the atmosphere envelop him. People play instruments and there is laughter, and by the end of the night he even allows himself to be prevailed upon to sing a song or two, his rich baritone voice sounding out pleasingly in the bar and lifting his spirits as it does. When midnight comes, George sends everyone else on their way, tripping and dancing home through the Midwinter air and filling the quiet streets with life and mirth. 

Aziraphale is warm and cozy and it is with reluctance that he rouses himself from the soft armchair by the fire to head up to the same room he took when he first arrived, shaking George by the hand and wishing him a Merry Christmas as he does. There is a gentle smile on the inn keeper’s face mixed with what is unmistakably a look of approval, and another layer of contentment drapes itself across Aziraphale’s shoulders. He prepares himself for the musty bedding and damp cold of the room, but is thrilled to find a fire burning and the linen aired. 

“Oh, Crowley,” he sighs to himself as he drunkenly shrugs off his clothing and settles into bed, “I wish you’d been here, wanted to make sure you had a Merry Christmas too,” and he is still thinking of the boatman, wondering how he has spent his day, as he drifts off into a dreamless slumber.

* * *

Crowley’s smile when he greets him at the harbour the next morning is disgustingly bright and more than a little smug when he sees Aziraphale’s bleary-eyed face as he crawls down to the water’s edge to meet him. 

“Oh, don’t you start," huffs Aziraphale as he presses his hands against his eye-sockets, hoping to push his headache out of the back of his skull.

“A very good morning to you too, Aziraphale! I trust that you had a good time, then? Feeling a little worse for wear are we?” Crowley’s tone is cheery and it is hard for Aziraphale to stay grumpy in the face of such good humour. 

“Urgh, I’ll say. George offered me breakfast, I told him I’d better not. Though maybe that would have been for the best, either way…”

Crowley’s smile widens and he directs the lighthouse keeper towards the waiting dinghy, where Aziraphale is grateful to find a flask of sweet tea and some dry biscuits. 

“Crowley!”

“Come on, get in, Aziraphale. The sooner you’re back, the sooner you can crawl under the covers and hibernate.”

“Sounds perfect, do continue,” he clutches his stomach as they begin to move off, “though perhaps not that fast, Crowley. There’s a good chap.”

* * *

The week leading up to New Year’s Eve passes without event, and it is with growing excitement that Aziraphale counts down the days to the coming celebration. He has had a ham ordered in specially as well as a few other choice items that John would not usually stock in his small shop in the village, and he has just finished setting everything out in the kitchen when the familiar knock booms loudly at the front door. He straightens up and runs a hand quickly over his beard before moving to admit his guest. _ Why on earth are you so jittery, man? He’s just a friend, no need to act like a lamb in spring. _ He composes himself and opens the front door. 

“Bloody hell, Aziraphale, look at you, you look… Wow! If I told you I’d made an effort before I left to navigate the high seas to get here, would you believe me?” Crowley says as he hurries into the warmth of the main room.

Aziraphale has not gone to a lot of trouble, but he does like to look his best when he can, and he has not had occasion to pull out his finest waistcoat since he arrived at Eastgate, so he took the opportunity now. He has also groomed his beard properly for the first time in weeks, and even took the trouble to get his hair trimmed too. He had felt good about himself when he checked the mirror before leaving his bedroom that afternoon. Just for today, he is choosing to completely ignore the fading bruises and healing cuts and what they signify out there in the sea. 

So when he sees the look of outright approval on Crowley’s face as he stands there at the threshold he is thrilled and cannot help wiggling his shoulders with self satisfaction as he smiles at his friend. He _ can _ tell that Crowley has put some thought into his appearance today: his face is freshly shaven, he is wearing a jumper in much better condition than those he normally goes about in, and when he removes his hat to place it on the pegs by the front door his hair gleams in the light of the lamps and the blazing fire. He looks… rejuvenated somehow. It is apt, Aziraphale thinks, given the coming of the New Year when it feels like anything is possible and everything can be made anew.

It turns into a wonderful evening, filled with laughter and camaraderie, and Aziraphale cannot remember the last time that he felt this at ease in anyone’s company, let alone someone who, he realises, he knows so little about. He endeavours to find out more about his companion, but if Crowley is to be believed then there is very little to tell. Aziraphale is not convinced, however. He has been keeping secrets his whole life and he can spot the telling signs of it when he talks to Crowley. He does not wish to pry, but he does want his friend to realise that their new acquaintance is a thing of equals, and that, as Crowley has been a sympathetic ear for Aziraphale, so Aziraphale wants to do the same for Crowley. 

There is only one incidence in the evening, later on when the wine is all gone and they are relaxing in comfort, when the boatman finally lets his tongue slip. It is so unexpected that, drunk though he is at this point, Aziraphale’s attention is suddenly razor sharp and his focus completely directed to what Crowley is saying.

“I get what you’re saying, ‘Ziraphale, I know it’s important to be seen to be doing the right thing in a small community like this, but trust me, they wouldn’t have wanted me there for Christmas…” he pauses and chuckles to himself, “don’t want a spectre at the feast after all… Anyway, what was I saying? Oh yeah, well I know George invites everyone, ‘ss blanket invitation, but even if I went, I don’t trust ‘em. Don’t find it easy to trust people, you know… Well, yeah, _ you _ do know, what am I saying. _ You _ know _ exactly _ what I’m talking about. People and their prejudices, their superstitions, their stupid bloody religions and rules and telling people what’s right and what isn’t, what’s good and what’s… the other one. Ssinful. No, I don’t spend more time there than I have to.”

Aziraphale is so shocked by this monologue that the room falls silent for several moments before he can think of a way to proceed. 

“What are you saying, Crowley?”

A pause. The logs crackle merrily, at odds with the sudden shift in the atmosphere in the room.

“I’m sssaying that you and I have more in common than you’d think,” Crowley replies in a low voice, a glass of whiskey held loosely in one hand. The silence folds in around them and Aziraphale waits, his breath held and a heightened awareness of his heart beating against his ribs. Crowley doesn’t say anything else, but lifts the tumbler to his lips and drains it. As the whiskey hits the back of his throat, he seems to return from that dark space he inhabits sometimes, and he blinks as he turns to face Aziraphale once more, the veil that has fallen between them being lifted. 

“Presentss!” he exclaims out of nowhere, clearly trying to recapture the lighthearted mood of the evening, and Aziraphale is more than happy to let him; he will think more on what Crowley has said another time.

The lighthouse keeper had been unsure about getting a gift for the boatman, so he was happy when Crowley solved the problem for him by asking if he could bring Aziraphale a little something when they met at New Year’s. _ Presents. _

“Yes, of course, my dear, yours is over here on the table…”

“Can I give you yours first?” Crowley asks, already signalling to the other man to stay put and rising to move towards the slim square package he brought as well as the bottle of wine they have consumed. He places it lightly on Aziraphale’s lap before resuming his slouch in the armchair, one leg hanging lazily over the side. The package is wrapped neatly in brown paper tied shut with simple twine. Crowley has slid a solitary sprig of holly into the bow and the effect is rather impressive.

“How lovely,” Aziraphale remarks, almost reluctant to undo the wrappings. He relents, however, his curiosity winning out, and within a few moments he is pulling a gramophone record out of the folds of the paper. He turns it over to read the cover slip: _ Puttin’ On The Ritz, Joe Kaye’s Band, written by Irving Berlin. _

“Oh, Crowley, I don’t know what to say, it’s so thoughtful, thank you,” Aziraphale stutters out, not having the heart to point out the obvious difficulty. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat as Crowley sits across from him smirking slightly, before leaning over and tapping Aziraphale on the knee.

“Aha, yes! I know exactly what you’re thinking, ‘Oh bugger, how do I tell him that I don’t have a record player?’ or something like that."

Aziraphale shifts his gaze downwards and back up, embarrassed. The boatman grins before he continues: "Allow me to introduce you to Part Two of your gift!” 

Crowley stands a little unsteadily, then finds his balance again before bounding across the room to the front door in a few great leaps, wrenching the door open and vanishing into the cold night. It is funny, Aziraphale thinks as he watches him go, but the whole scene looks oddly familiar for a second, though he can’t think why. Almost as soon as he has disappeared, Crowley returns again, now hefting a large wooden crate, which he lugs unceremoniously in the middle of the floor before retrieving a small flick knife from his pocket and working the lid loose. Aziraphale moves to join him and looks down into the box. Amidst the curls of wood shavings that have been packed in to secure it, sits a gramophone. It is small compared to some that Aziraphale has seen before, and from the small dents and scratches in the woodwork it would appear to be second hand. _ Nevertheless, it’s perfect _. His eyes shine as he reaches down to gently caress the smooth brass of the horn and his face is full of delight when he turns back towards his companion.

“It’s magnificent!” His face creases for a second. “It’s too much, though. You just replaced my book a few weeks ago! This must have cost you a fortune, Crowley, I can’t possibly accept it.” He is overwhelmed by such a lavish display and feels suddenly shy, small and anxious that he has nothing as grand as this to offer in return. He has no idea whether Crowley is wealthy or poor, and has always assumed towards the latter, but he suddenly realises that he could be very wrong.

“Nonsense, you’ll accept it and that’s final. If you must know, it was just lying around gathering dust, I’m not at home often enough to enjoy it and I figured you could make use of it. Thought it might keep you from going mad out here on the long nights, keep you from talking to those ghosts of yours maybe.”

“One ghost, thank you very much, and it seems to have gone. I haven’t heard anything from it since, well, since you and I started spending more time together. You must have forced it out!” Aziraphale says with an enthusiastic smile, and he sees the look of discomfort that flits into Crowley’s eyes before he looks away quickly. _ Can’t take a compliment as usual. _

“In that case, thank you. Thank you very much. Let’s set her up and see how she runs shall we?”

It only takes a moment to clear a space on the dresser against the back wall and then the gramophone is in place, the record mounted on the turn plate, the handle wound to set it in motion, and the fine needle lowered delicately to sit in the grooves of the spinning disc. There is a scratch and a crackle, and then the jaunty tune drifts up from the device to fill the air around them. As with every mechanical thing that works as it should, Aziraphale is thrilled. With the fire glowing merrily, the room warmed, and music playing, Aziraphale’s heart soars.

They stand listening for a while, letting the notes wash over them until the piece ends. 

“What fun! Thank you so much, Crowley. Your turn now, I think.” says Aziraphale softly as he reluctantly moves from the boatman’s side back to a table in the far corner of the room, returning with the small rectangular parcel he has hidden there. 

“It’s not much, but I wanted you to have something that… Oh, here you go. Merry Christmas!” Aziraphale feels self conscious as he hands it over and stands wringing his hands, feeling exposed and foolish, and suddenly painfully sober. He concentrates on the smoky aftertaste of the whiskey lingering in his mouth as he waits for Crowley’s reaction. Unlike Aziraphale, who had painstakingly undone the knots and unfolded the paper on his gift, Crowley takes the offered parcel with a bright smile and tears the paper aside, speaking as he does so. 

“I wasn’t expecting any gifts this year, so whatever it is I’m sure…” his voice cuts off mid-sentence and his mouth hangs open, a look of genuine shock making his eyes widen and his eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline. His mouth works open and closed a few times before he finally finds his voice again, the words sounding almost reverential as he stares down at the item he now holds in his hands. “_ Aziraphale _,” he breathes out, sounding sober himself now too. “This... this really is too much, I know that I insisted that you accept the gramophone, but I really can’t accept this. I’d have to be an idiot not to see the value of this. No, I’m touched, but no,” the words tumble forth as Crowley stands there shaking his head slightly, his auburn hair catching the firelight and seeming to come alive as he does so.

He looks down at the book in his hands and cradles it delicately as though it were a living thing, before holding it out for Aziraphale to take. The lighthouse keeper takes a step forward to close the distance between them and pushes his copy of ‘_ Tess of The D’Urbervilles’ _ back again.

“I must insist,” Aziraphale replies earnestly. “Just as you did. It’s an old edition, not worth anything to anyone but me, and you have more than earned it and my wholehearted respect in the last few weeks. I would consider it a great kindness if you would accept it.”

Crowley will not be moved though. “No, Aziraphale. These books of yours, they are the last link that you have to your old life, to the hopes that you had for it, and I would be doing you a great disservice to take even a single one from you. I didn’t know before, I didn’t realise… What I’m saying is that these are too important to part you from. Theo risked exposing herself to get them to you, they belong here, they are a part of you. I’m deeply honoured that you would even consider letting me have one, but I can’t.”

Aziraphale frowns, his brows drawing together and forming the furrows that deepen every year. “You’re right, they are precious to me. I was so angry with… whatever it was that ruined my ‘_ Middlemarch’ _. It was physically painful to see it treated with so little regard; but that is why I feel good about giving you this one, Crowley. You saw how much it meant to me and you found a way to bring it back to me.” 

He can see how uncomfortable Crowley still looks, and thinks he has grown even more so in fact, so he relents. “Very well. If you will not take the book as a gift, how does this suit you instead: I gift you the use of this and any other of my books whenever you choose. Think of it as a lifetime library pass. You can take them with you and return them when you finish them, or you can read them when you are here. No need to ask. Just cherish them. Cherish them as I do.”

“I think that sounds like the best gift you could have given me, Aziraphale. Thank you. Oh, shit, look at the time, it’s five minutes to midnight, come on, quick!” 

Crowley puts the book back down on the little table, picks up his glass and the whiskey bottle in one hand, then grabs one of Aziraphale’s in the other and begins tugging him towards the staircase. 

“What… whe… Crowley! What are you doing?” Aziraphale reflexively pulls against this sudden change of tempo as he is dragged along.

“Bring your glass, quick, we need to go! Tradition!” is all Crowley says.

So, managing to slow him long enough to retrieve his neglected tumbler, the lighthouse keeper gives in and allows himself to be guided up the narrow winding staircase. He is not so inebriated that his heart doesn’t pick up a notch with excitement at the unknown situation unfolding before him, finding his eyes flickering towards his bedroom door of their own accord as they approach it, unsure whether he is disappointed or relieved when they hurry onwards passed that landing, up and up and up until they come out on to the uppermost floor where the lamp swings round in its ceaseless dance with the dark.

Crowley keeps moving, heading for the door to the outer platform that wraps around the building, and Aziraphale suddenly remembers that the last time he was up here was the night the fishing boat sundered and the monster attacked. He pauses at the memory and Crowley looks back at him, puzzled for a second, before moving back towards him and grasping his upper arm, reassuring, encouraging. 

“It’s safe, Aziraphale. There’s nothing out there tonight, trust me. ” 

And he does. There is such certainty in his voice, and Aziraphale finds himself smiling sheepishly before continuing towards the open door and out into the night. They move around to the side of the lighthouse facing out towards the open sea, the wind biting at his exposed fingers and ears, but Aziraphale scarcely notices. The night sky is indeed clear of any clouds and the moon has already set, allowing the stars to show themselves in all their glory, the Milky Way seeming to spring from the water like a billion droplets of seaspray. With the rippling ocean meeting the twinkling sky and nothing between to disrupt them, the world becomes infinite. Aziraphale drinks it in, closing his eyes briefly to commit this to memory. When he opens his eyes and looks for Crowley’s face in the darkness beside him, he sees the boatman’s eyes are shut and he is mumbling something so softly that Aziraphale cannot make it out over the wind. He looks away, not wanting to intrude, but a moment later Crowley is nudging him and gesturing with the bottle to offer him a top-up. 

“You said this was a tradition, Crowley?” Aziraphale says as he lifts his glass and watches the other man pour out more of the golden liquid. 

“Ah… I meant a new tradition, one for you as the new lighthouse keeper at Eastgate By The Sea! A toast to the New Year on top of the lighthouse with the world at your feet! To The Lighthouse!”

“To The New Year!”

“To The World!”

Aziraphale smiles warmly as he clinks his glass against Crowley’s. “To The World!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the world :) Tune in for Chapter 9: The Ghost At The Funeral


	9. The Ghost At The Funeral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When spring arrives a service is held for those lost at sea during the winter months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are finally back, and we might not be updating weekly but we will definitely not take another three month break between chapters. Thank you for sticking around and putting up with the hiatus <3  
Music suggestions by [Jack](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fuFdkHc3ABI) and [Robyn](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DlObhhN1kkk)

Winter wears on, dark and dreary, cold and bleak. The storms that rage in this corner of the world are fierce and seem to shake the very rock upon which the lighthouse at Eastgate stands; more than once, Aziraphale is woken from sleep by the violent rattling of the window panes. More souls are claimed by the sea in that season than he would have thought possible. But then, as George said all those months ago, this is a cold hard place, and the people must brave the waters if they hope to survive, though the waters be treacherous and storm-tossed. The ones that make it back alive always turn up to shore in a similar state: confused and wide-eyed with terror, muttering about demon sea-serpents, horrors of the deep, and sweet-tongued sirens dragging them to shore. Even when their sanity returns, they are forever changed, touched by something deeper than grief and tragedy.

Aziraphale is spared the distress of further debris and wreckage on his immediate doorstep, but he can’t help feeling a pang of guilt every time he hears the news of another boat gone missing, of more sailors presumed dead.  _ Isn’t keeping the waters safe my responsibility, after all?  _ Despite his loneliness on those long, stormy nights and the gnawing uncertainty of what news might await him with the next dawn, he is thankful that Crowley avoids journeying across the open water to see him if the sea is boiling and the sky is filled with menace.

The mere thought of his friend out there struggling against the waves in his little dinghy fills him with terror. Aziraphale feels it like an ache in his bones, accompanied by a desperate need to warn Crowley to stay entirely clear of the water. He chastises himself for it;  _ stupid old silly, he knows this strait better than most and navigates it with more ease than the rest. _

Still, as the winter months wear on he can't shake the feeling that something bad is going to happen to his friend, or maybe that it already has. Time feels strange like that sometimes when he thinks about Crowley. His unease seeps into his dreams too, with images of blood in the water, echoing screams for help, and the eventual crushing darkness.

Nothing happens though. Crowley brings his deliveries as normal whenever he can. Aziraphale tries not to fret about his dwindling supply of fresh eggs when the boatman cannot make the crossing for ten days at the end of January, and attempts to hide his relief and delight at finally hearing the familiar knock on the front door.  _ Was it the prospect of a freshly made omelette or the company of the man who would share it that made your heart beat faster?  _ Whatever it is, Aziraphale feels an ease in the company of the boatman that he has seldom experienced in life. This man knows the darkest corners of his past and still he treats him not just like an equal, but like a valued friend. Crowley behaves as though nothing has changed, and Aziraphale might believe that they never sat close together on that day in December, with Crowley sampling his secrets as he poured them out into the morning air. 

So the seemingly unending winter passes, and spring finally begins to stretch and stir at Eastgate by the Sea. It happens slowly; dormant life germinating, each seedling struggling its way through the frosty hard-packed earth, fighting against the landscape to survive. It occurs to Aziraphale as he marvels at the sap-green shoots poking through the earth at his feet that it is not only the people of Eastgate who come from hardy stock.

On the first day of April, Aziraphale sees the first flower bloom: a single iris growing just off the footpath, all the way down near the pier.  _ Beautiful things still grow this far from Eden,  _ he thinks, allowing a soft smile to grace his features. That same night an April shower turns into a full-blown tempest; a violent parting gift from the storm season before its curtain call. Between his usual worries for the fishing crews that might have gone out to sea, and for Crowley -  _ always for Crowley-  _ Aziraphale finds himself wondering whether the tender little stem will still be standing come morning.

That night’s rest is fitful, his dreams plagued by the grim visions he now expects come storm and rain. When the first rays of sun slip through the window and fall weakly across his pillow it is as though they provide him with an excuse to rise and give up chasing the elusive concept of sleep. After the first few bracing sips of a strong cup of tea, Aziraphale remembers his flower, and in a flight of fancy he pulls on his coat and the rain boots he keeps by the front door to go check on it.

He spots the familiar flash of colour from afar, and when he reaches the place where it stands he crouches down to inspect the tiny thing, his mug clasped in both hands to offer what little warmth it can. It’s firmly planted in the wet soil, stem and leaves intact and unbroken, with only a few petals missing. Aziraphale smiles and takes another hearty sip, the warmth and aroma filling him and mingling with the relief in his chest.  _ It’s such a silly little thing, people would laugh at me,  _ he thinks, and then inadvertently his brain adds:  _ Crowley wouldn’t though, never. _

At that moment, as if spurred by the thought of his friend, Aziraphale looks up towards the waterfront. Sure enough, as if summoned, ' _ Patience'  _ has just appeared around the bend of the island. Something tightens unpleasantly in Aziraphale’s chest, banishing the smile that was about to break across his face at the sight. Crowley’s unexpected visits to the island used to be nothing but a delight for him. Not that he’s not happy to see his friend, but Crowley has been the bearer of bad news too many times now, following one too many storms. So on mornings like these the sight of the boatman, welcome as it always is, has also become a bad omen.

Aziraphale smiles softly as he greets him and helps him to dock, but his agitation must show, and Crowley responds to the unasked question that hangs between them.

“No fishing boats were lost last night, don’t worry,”he says, taking off his sunglasses to hold Aziraphale’s gaze.

Aziraphale exhales in relief. “Oh, oh that’s good to know, come on up then!” He brightens up instantly, smiling at Crowley and gesturing up the footpath.

“There is one thing though,” the boatman says, his brow furrowing, even as he falls in step beside Aziraphale.

“Oh?”

“There is a service, a memorial of sorts, for those who got lost at sea during the winter. They do it every spring, ‘s not like anyone expects the bodies to turn up.” Crowley’s expression darkens, and he keeps his eyes down on the muddy path.

“I see," says Aziraphale, to fill the awkward stretch of silence. He doesn't want to speak of the looming death toll, of the grieving families, of what it means to be a lighthouse keeper in a place where the sea just takes, and takes, and takes, despite your lamp shining every night without fail.

Crowley doesn't press it. He understands, as always, and he probably doesn't want to think about it either.

"I can row you across the evening before," he offers.

Aziraphale already knows that Crowley won't be at the service. He's never there whenever the little community comes together, be it in joy or grief. He knows not to ask too much about it either; his friend gets cagey when the issue is brought up, and Aziraphale tries to respect Crowley's right to privacy, even if the apparent lack of trust stings.

So he bites down on the questions that come up every so often and accepts them for what they are: little morsels of forbidden knowledge that he may never taste. And it might be for the best, there's so much he stands to lose if he utters them.  _ Why won't you come further inland? Why do we always part at the water’s edge? Where do you go when we do?  _

"Will you come in for a spot of tea?" Aziraphale asks instead.

And like always, Crowley says yes.

* * *

There is tension in the air between them when the afternoon arrives for Crowley to row Aziraphale to shore. It's neither man's fault, but the darkness that has been looming overhead for the past few days is creeping towards its silent crescendo, and it makes the air it occupies thick and stifling. Things will be better after the funeral, when this whole thing is over. Maybe then spring will be allowed to come in earnest. Maybe then they will be allowed to breathe a little easier.

Quick parting words are spoken, with Aziraphale's shoulders clasped in Crowley's firm grip, as the boatman assures him that he's strong enough. Aziraphale wants to deny it, he wants to ask Crowley to stay, to not let go of him. He wants it so bad it hurts. He's used to hurting though, and the inevitable parting of their ways leaves him feeling cold and directionless. 

His legs still know to take him to the inn, muscle memory leading him up the familiar village streets that he doesn't really see as they roll past him. He pauses in front of the inn door, and when a gentle gust of wind playfully tugs at his clothes he is suddenly reminded of his first night here. Things were so different then; the wind was bitterly cold and fierce, carrying strange whispers to pour themselves into his ears and pool heavy in his chest. Some things, though, feel achingly familiar, that leaden weight has settled permanently in Aziraphale’s belly.

He walks in, feeling no less a stranger than he did on that first day, despite the familiar if curt greetings raised his way. No one’s eyes care to linger on him. They almost seem to look right through him.  _ As if I am the spectre haunting the lighthouse, and for all the good I did for those people I might as well be- _

Aziraphale interrupts his train of thought with a violent shake of the head; he can feel his breathing starting to pick up, and he refuses to make a scene in front of a crowd. Least of all a crowd like this, with their loss permeating the inn like a heavy mist. He walks up to the bar, his shoulders squared as if in preparation for conflict.

"'ullo Mr Fell." George Howell greets him amicably enough, though it seems he cannot find it in himself to be cheery today. He pushes the glass of scotch he began pouring the second Aziraphale walked in across the bar towards the other man.

"I told you to call me Aziraphale, back on Christmas Day."

"You were pissed." A gently teasing smile graces George's craggy face for a moment.

"It still stands." Aziraphale's returning smile could almost be called bashful. He banishes it from his face by taking a long appreciative sip of the whiskey.

For a while he finds peace in the drink and George's steadfast presence as he tends the bar, occasionally making the rounds to collect empty glasses and replace them with full ones. But the darkness never leaves Aziraphale's periphery, tirelessly looking for a way in. It finds it in the form of a hushed conversation between two young fishermen a few tables away. It has been going on for a while, too quiet for Aziraphale to catch most of it, but the drink emboldens the young men, until one of them slams his empty glass down and speaks up:

"I tell you, I saw 'im up on those cliffs I did, the day the 'Siren' was wrecked. The Hallows Man- ow!"

The man rubs his arm where his mate punched him and he turns towards the bar at his friend’s gesture. George has turned off the tap he was drawing a pint from in order to turn his full attention to the two younger men, leveling them with a dark glare.

“I will not have you disrespecting the dead with your fanciful tales.” George’s voice is low, making the threat in his words plain.

“I know what I-”

“We’re sorry George.” The second man loudly cuts off his friend, having weighed the prospect of no more drinks for them more carefully.

Their conversation becomes hushed once more, and after a moment George returns to his work. Aziraphale, however, finds himself turning the young fisherman’s words around in his head, his fingers twisting into the thickly knitted fabric of his sweater sleeves.

"Should I even ask?" George grouses, his voice kept carefully low.

Aziraphale is startled for a moment, then, before his better judgement can assess whether he should speak he says: "Maybe they weren't wrong."

George lets out a heavy sigh. "Aziraphale, please, not again, we’ve been over this. I expect it from dunderheads like those two, I don’t think I can handle it from you too, not today."

"There's something out there other than the monster, George, and-"

"Alright Mr Fell," says George suddenly, loud enough to startle Aziraphale, "I should get your room ready for the night."

With that proclamation, the inkeep steps out from behind the bar and briskly makes for the stairs leading up to the second floor. Aziraphale knows a dismissal when he hears one, and he bristles in response. His prudence struggles against his stubbornness; a battle lost before it even begins. He gets up and quietly shuffles after the innkeeper. He catches George halfway up the stairs, at which point the man sighs loudly and mutters: "Oh, Christ, here we go."

Aziraphale follows up the steps, talking as he goes despite the steepness of the flight and the way it leaves him gasping and winded. "You know about the man I saw on the island on Halloween, well, I no longer think that was Jacob, or any other restless soul. What if it was  _ him?" _

George abruptly stops and whirls around to stare down Aziraphale with the same intense expression he used on the two young men at the bar. Aziraphale stares back defiantly, drawing himself up and squaring his shoulders. A few beats later George's shoulders sag, and he exhales in what sounds like bone deep exhaustion. Aziraphale knows that he is being cruel; he can see in the hollows under those dark eyes and the untidy tangles in the coarse beard that George has been dreading today as much as he has himself. But he has to ask. He needs answers like a fish needs water, he is drowning without them. Aziraphale can feel himself slipping under the surface, the arms of the murky waters rising to meet him, the harsh cold wetness of the sea burning in his lungs…

He will not. He shall not. Aziraphale has no intention of letting go this time.

"Why can't you just leave it alone and let the dead rest in peace?" George grumbles despairingly. 

"Because they aren't resting, George. We might have made it through the winter this time, but it isn't over, it's not going to be whilst he- it's still out there. There are three families mourning their dead who can attest to that. There are ghosts everywhere in this village and I think you might be the only person who can tell me why."

Aziraphale's voice sounds terribly loud in his own ears, and for a moment he's afraid his words might have traveled beyond the secluded little stairwell into the crowded bar. George doesn't speak. His jaw is firmly set and the knuckles on his hand still grasping the rail have gone bone-white. Aziraphale takes the last few steps to stand just below George in the narrow space. He reaches out and places his hand, lightly, over the barman's and says: "I know that you know more than you've ever told me, not superstitious nonsense, you know something true that you aren't telling me because you're scared. Well, I'm scared too. Please, help me understand."

He can feel George's grip under his palm grow, if it were possible, even tighter for a moment, and then slowly relax until it starts feeling like flexible muscle again rather than a mooring line stretched just shy of it's breaking point.

"After," George finally grits out. "Tomorrow, after the funeral."

This is as much as he's willing to give to Aziraphale right now, and Aziraphale is relieved and grateful. He nods his assent, voice gone too tight and mouth too dry to speak now, before retreating back down the stairs. The least he can do is give the man some space, so he keeps to himself for the rest of the evening before retreating early for the night.

* * *

Aziraphale wakes an hour before dawn, from a sleep so deep and peaceful it disorientates him. It seems almost mocking for this night to be free of dreams of shadows in the water and saline in his lungs; it feels like a betrayal of the men they will be mourning today. The face of the young sailor, the boy really, reaching out for him as he was swept away from the lighthouse shore rises before him like a true spectre, but Aziraphale blinks and it vanishes. He cracks the old peeling shutters open and takes a look at the street below, lit by the eerie ghost-light of the street lamps muffled by a mist so dense it cloys his lungs just to look at it. Somehow even this far inland it's thicker than the morning-mist he sees out on the island, and as he watches it seems to pulsate and curl like a living, breathing thing.

With a shudder Aziraphale turns away from the window and reaches for the matches on his bedstead. He notices that his hands are shaking as he lights the oil lamp on the battered table, but the warm orange glow offers him an instant measure of comfort.

_ It is a day like all others,  _ he repeats in his head as he carefully undertakes the task of washing in the dim light. By the time he has finished and has put on the only dark suit he brought with him to Eastgate, Aziraphale admits the futility of this repeated message; he is fooling nobody, least of all himself. He gingerly goes downstairs, and it's only once he sees George, already up and sitting, for once, in front of the bar that Aziraphale realises he didn't expect to find anyone here or anywhere else in the village.  _ They've all been swallowed up by the fog that has a will of its own, and I'll be left here, all alone, out on my island to man the lighthouse. _

Aziraphale is in such a daze that he doesn't notice he's making his way there until he becomes aware of a bemused greeting, which finally snaps him out of his macabre reverie. If George holds any resentment from last night it doesn't show on his face, which is set in sharp determination; the kind found on the faces of a boat crew preparing to weather a storm together, to make sure all the lines are secure and all their shipmates will make it through to the other side. 

Aziraphale has to remind himself not to stare. His gaze falls to the steaming mug clutched in George's large hands and it lingers longingly as the smell of freshly brewed coffee finally registers with his senses.

"Not a morning person, are you?" George sounds as close to mirth as the day ahead of them can allow.

Aziraphale chooses not to correct him, as the barman slides off his stool and heads back towards the kitchen.  _ Let him think it's sleep that's clouding your mind, it's for the best. _

Admittedly, his focus becomes sharper and his mind clearer after he has gone through half of the mug of sweetened coffee George brings out for him. Neither man is in the mood for chatter, so it is in silence that they watch the first rays of pale light hit the smudged window panes. No one else comes by the inn, and Aziraphale has barely finished his coffee when George informs him that it is time to get going. 

Aziraphale knows that the village has its own small chapel with a vicar in attendance. It hasn't been hard to avoid attending services since he arrived here though, preferring to make his peace with God on his own terms, in his own time, in his own space. He has even started praying again, ever since the night of the shipwreck which solidified in him the belief that the Devil is very much real. But as he makes his way through the cobbled streets towards the weather-beaten structure now, he realizes there may still be more than a little resentment left in him.  _ Almighty forgive me, for this if nothing else,  _ he thinks as he feels dread rise at the sight of the innocuous little stone building. There are more people on the path ahead of George and him, and others yet lagging further behind. Their silhouettes blur around the edges in the persistent mist, and a shiver runs down his spine at the thought of unknown eyes watching him through the thickening gloom in the same way he watches them. Aziraphale looks down at his feet as he walks, hearing the sound of many sets of footsteps slapping dully on the gravel, the noise deadened by the walls of mist surrounding them, though still seeming impossibly loud in the mournful silence.  _ Dead men walking through a dead town to a funeral without end  _ .

The small room is chilly with the wind working its way in through the cracks in the ill-fitted windows and the doors thrown wide open to admit the villagers. Aziraphale feels a clammy coldness descend over him and settle in his bones as he follows George up the rows of pews and shuffles himself onto the simple wooden bench beside him. The wood of the seat creaks and groans as they sit, and Aziraphale has to suppress a manic giggle at the thought of it giving way under their collective weight. It is nerves, and fatigue, and shame, he knows. He eyes George guiltily, but the barman is gazing resolutely forward towards the altar, chewing absentmindedly at the overhang of his moustache. Following George's gaze, Aziraphale settles himself as comfortably as he can on the bare wooden pew, and waits for the nightmare to begin in earnest. People are still filtering in and he wishes they would hurry up, just get here so it could begin and then be over. He can already feel people’s eyes on him, hear his distinctive name mumbled over and over again, and he knows that they feel he is at least partly to blame for them all being gathered here today, for another year of loss and pain. 

_ I tried my best, I promise. My best was just no match for the competition. _

_ Not this time.  _

_ Next year, I’ll be ready. _

He glances to George again as this thought flits through his mind, and resolves to hold him to his word and learn the truth he has kept from him. The idea of action, of making progress, fortifies him somewhat, and he feels his back straighten and his shoulders draw up a little. 

There is a smell that those who have visited a church in that part of the world will know is common to all such places. It is hard to describe and even harder to identify, but Aziraphale smells it now. The flimsy paper of the books of Psalms embedded with the oil from a thousand fingers as they trace the lines in the verses. The layer upon layer of beeswax polish coating the altar, the rim of the pulpit. And the damp. The damp, pervading odour of mildew and decay and rot.  _ Rotten to the core. The rotten apple in the barrel… _

The collected rustling of the clothing of the congregation as they stand in unison at the arrival of the clergyman brings Aziraphale’s focus back to the room and he rises with them, straightening his jacket and tugging down the front of his waistcoat where it has ridden up over the front of his shirt. His hands go automatically to the bow-tie he is wearing, smoothing it again and again, loosening it, tightening it again. It feels like a noose about his neck and he wishes he hadn’t worn it. The sound of shuffling dies down and a single, clear, high note sounds out from the back of the room as a bow is drawn skillfully across the strings of a violin. Gooseflesh pricks instantly across every inch of Aziraphale’s skin and his breath catches in his chest. Another note follows the first, then another, and another, and it seems as though the whole congregation holds its breath with him. The song is new to him, but he feels as though he has heard it before, until he realises that it's just the sorrow in the melody that is familiar, the heartache of loss playing out in every rise and fall of the bow. The first tear splashes against his fists where they are clenched tightly in front of him as he bows his head and sinks beneath the waves of despair crashing around him.

* * *

“Truthfully, Mr. Fell, I thought it would be worse, it’s been a bad winter this year, and no mistake,” mumbles George as they move out into the moisture-laden air once more.

People bustle past them, wrapping their coats closer against the chill of the fog and moving with purpose back up the path towards the village. No one says anything to him now.  _ Maybe they have laid their grudge to rest with the ending of the service. Unlikely.  _ He knows he is mostly being paranoid, but throughout the entire service that prickle at the back of his neck told him that there were eyes on him, watching him, waiting for him. It is still there now.

“It’s Aziraphale, please, I told you before. And at least that’s over with now. Do they always read that passage? The one from Lamentation of a Sinner? It was a little odd… Though I suppose I understand why. That’s what they all think, isn’t it? That their sins bring this to their doors?”

“I’d rather have them believing that than the alternative,” George replies darkly. “And it might be over for you, but my work’s just beginning. They’ll go down to the shore to see the empty casket away with the families of the lost, then they’ll be in with me until the early hours, drinking their fill and singing every song of the sea they can think of. Young Fred there will have sore fingers before the night’s out, they’ll have him playing that many pieces on that violin of his. You should come. Just for one at least. It can’t hurt, and it might help.”

“Maybe. I can’t face the coffin though, I really can’t. I kept seeing the young boy’s face all the way through the service, I can’t deal with any more ghosts today, George. I think I’ll just stay here for a bit, get some air. I’ll be along shortly,” Aziraphale states in a voice that fails to conceal the current of emotions ebbing and flowing under the surface of his composure. The look that the barman flashes him makes it clear that he is fooling no one, but he nods a parting and follows the retreating backs of the rest of the villagers before being swallowed by the swirling tendrils of mist.

He stands there a moment longer, looking at the place where George has vanished, before turning and seating himself on the low dry-stone wall that surrounds the churchyard. Everyone else has gone now, and in their absence the silence returns and settles around him with the dew drops that cling to his skin and clothes. It is a bleak moment and he feels bleak in it. The memory of that baleful song, of the mothers, wives, brothers, sons, all reading passages, sharing a story, all compounding their loss; all of it floods over him in a moment and a cold sweat breaks out over his brow as a tingle runs down his spine and settles between his shoulder blades.

_ No, wait, what was that? _

Aziraphale turns his head sharply to the left where a flicker of movement has caught his eye. Something was just there, out on the path beyond the limit of his vision. He strains his eyes, leaning towards the place involuntarily, turning his head to the side to better discern any noise in the white haze around him above the sound of his own heart drumming in his ears, holding his breath and feeling his muscles tense ready to… what? Run? Fight? The moment builds and drags and Aziraphale feels his chest tighten and his panic rise, before it gradually gets replaced by something else. He is tired, so tired, of this relentless fear.  _ Damn it all to Hell  _ , he thinks, defiance welling inside him.  _ Enough  _ . It's probably just local children out to scare him whilst the adults are preoccupied. 

“Who’s there? Who is that? I know you’re out there! You ought to be ashamed, this isn’t the day to be playing silly tricks on people! Come here at once so I can tell your parents what you’ve been up to!” His voice is firm and authority rings through to his great relief. He waits, fists clenching automatically, jaw set forward, bristling with frustration. Silence. 

The wind whips about him suddenly, driven up from the sea far below in a salty gust, and as it does the heavy fog is sent scudding and whirling away, parting like the ocean before the hull of a boat, revealing the dark shadow on the path. Tall and black-clad with hair like a halo of fire.

_ The Dark Hallow’s Man.  _

That is how it appears in the instant before it turns and runs. The crushing of stones underfoot restarts Aziraphale’s heart where it seems to have stalled in his chest and the pumping blood rushes to his limbs and before he knows it he is in motion, hurtling down the path behind the figure. 

_ Get to the sea, get to the sssea! _

_ No! Not this time! Not again! _

_ Run, run, run, faster, quickly, don’t ssee… _

_ I’m coming, I’m not giving up this time. _

Aziraphale hears the voices in his mind and he knows now, finally he knows, that they do not both belong to him. Be it madness or the ability to hear the thoughts of the dark figure he is now pursuing it will have to wait, as he is aware that he is falling behind. The wind plucks at the mist and in the moments when it thins enough to expose his quarry, Aziraphale can see the growing distance between them, the other man’s coat-tails flying out behind him as he flees as though the very hounds of Hell were at his heels.  _ Damn it, damn all this soft living and good food,  _ he thinks briefly before gritting his teeth and digging deeper, spurring himself on with the thought of an end to all of this hellish uncertainty, an end to the funeral parties gathered around empty caskets. 

They are moving down through the back streets of the village and he knows that if they reach the water’s edge it will be over.  _ Think! Use your brain! You’re clever, don’t act like you’re stupid!  _ Then he has it. A cut through. It is a gamble; if the man breaks off and decides to make for the clifftops or the woodland at the upper border of the village then he will lose him. But if he continues downwards towards the sea then Aziraphale has a chance of closing the distance between them, maybe even cutting back in  _ ahead  _ of the stranger.  _ Decide. Choose. Left or continue? Quick! Choose! _

He turns abruptly left, careering into a stack of wooden crates nestled against the wall just beyond the corner. He has no breath to spare for expletives but registers the far-off sounds of a violin playing and the villagers singing”:  _ ‘Most Holy Spirit! Who didst brood upon the chaos dark and rude…’ _

He regains his balance and continues on, on, on, down the narrow alley, right at the end.

‘ _ Bid its angry tumult cease, and give for wild confusion, peace…’ _

Left again, then right - _ keep going, keep going-  _ before exploding out onto the main pathway once more just as it reaches the coastal path and the little cove beyond the harbour, the music clearer now.

‘ _ Hear us when we cry to Thee for those in peril on the sea…’ _

And within a stone's throw of the red-haired stranger. 

“Stop! Stay where you are! Don’t move!” Aziraphale pants out.

To his astonishment, the man stills and freezes, as though rooted to the spot by the sound of the voice behind him. He droops and seems to shrink before Aziraphale’s eyes, becoming more real and solid somehow, taking on a peculiarly familiar and achingly human aspect. The slope of the shoulders. The fine-boned fingers tightening to fists at his sides. The soft auburn hair.

_ It cannot be. This cannot be happening.  _

“Crowley?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading, and for your patience. Tune in for Chapter 10: Revelation

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Podfic: in the arms of the ocean (so sweet and so cold)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21390202) by [agent_of_mischief](https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_of_mischief/pseuds/agent_of_mischief), [robynthemagpie_writes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/robynthemagpie_writes/pseuds/robynthemagpie_writes)
  * ["I Swam," said Swimley](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25634503) by [Lurlur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lurlur/pseuds/Lurlur)


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